‘Sure, we called at the Williamson Company, and they said you’d left and they didn’t know your address. And then we came out, and who should we see but Mr. Puddephatt leading a pony. ’Twas the Virgin’s own miracle! “Hullo!” he says, lifting his hat. “Puddephatt,” says my mistress----’ The recital was never finished, for at that moment they reached the front-door. In the roadway stood the Décauville motor with lights gleaming. By the side of the Décauville stood Teresa Craig enveloped in a gray mackintosh. Richard’s face showed his intense pleasure at the most unlooked-for encounter. ‘Miss Craig,’ he said eagerly, ‘I hope you are in no trouble. Can I be of any assistance?’ She glanced at him coldly, inimically. ‘Mr. Redgrave,’ she replied with bitterness, and then looked about--the little street was deserted--‘I have come to seek an explanation from you. If you are an honourable man you will give it. And I have come, much against my inclination, to ask a favour. Bridget, take care of the motor.’ She swept imperially before him into the portals of the house. ‘Mr. Redgrave,’ said Teresa, in a tone which clearly indicated that she meant to lead the conversation, ‘we have not seen each other since I was so foolish as to faint in the--the shed.’ They sat together in Richard’s little office. It was not without difficulty that he had induced her even to sit down. Her demeanour was hostile. Her fine, imperious face had a stormy and implacable look--a look almost resentful, and Richard felt something of a culprit before that gaze. He met her eyes, however, with such bravery as he could muster. ‘Not since then,’ he assented. ‘I trust you are fully recovered, Miss Craig.’ Ignoring the utterance of this polite hope, she resumed: ‘I have to thank you for the service you rendered on Saturday night.’ ‘It was nothing,’ he said, in a voice as cold and formal as her own. ‘It was everything,’ she corrected him gravely. ‘I might have lost my life but for you.’ ‘I am happy to have been of any assistance,’ he said. But his thoughts ran: ‘She hasn’t come to London to tell me this. What the deuce, then, has she come for?’ ‘Bridget tells me you had an interview with my father that night. May I ask what passed?’ Teresa continued. ‘You have not seen your father since then?’ said Richard. ‘I have not.’ Her voice seemed momentarily to break. ‘Or doubtless he would have told you?’ ‘Doubtless.’ Richard determined to try a bold stroke. ‘I understood from Mr. Craig that he wished our interview to be strictly confidential.’ ‘What?’ she cried. ‘From me? From his daughter?’ She stood up, suddenly angry. ‘If, indeed, you are his daughter,’ said Richard quietly. Her eyes blazed, and her hands shook; but she collected herself, and smiled bitterly: ‘You, then, have heard that silly rumour?’ ‘By chance I heard it,’ he admitted. ‘And you believe it?’ ‘I neither believe it nor disbelieve it. What has it to do with me?’