‘Circus folk seldom trouble with newspapers,’ she said. ‘When was it?’ ‘About a month ago.’ ‘Poor fellow!’ Tears ran down her cheeks, and she spoke with an accent indescribably mournful. ‘You knew him?’ Richard suggested. ‘I should have been his wife a year ago,’ said Juana, ‘had _he_ not forbidden it.’ Again she pointed to Raphael Craig. ‘I never loved Mr. Featherstone, but I liked him. He was an honourable man--old enough to be my father, but an honourable man. He worshipped me. Why should I not have married him? It was the best chance I was ever likely to get, living the life we lived--solitary, utterly withdrawn from the world. Yes, I would have married him, and I would have made him a good wife. But _he_ forbade. He gave no reason. I was so angry that I would have taken Mr. Featherstone despite him. But Mr. Featherstone had old-fashioned ideas. He thought it wrong to marry a girl without her father’s consent. And so we parted. That, Mr. Redgrave, was the reason why I left the house of my so-called father. Scarcely a month ago Mr. Featherstone came to me again secretly, one night after the performance was over, and he again asked me to marry him, and said that he had decided to dispense with Mr. Craig’s consent. He begged me to marry him. His love was as great as ever, but with me things had changed. I had almost ceased even to like Mr. Featherstone. I was free, independent, and almost happy in that wandering life. Besides, I--never mind that. I refused him as kindly as I could. It must have been immediately afterwards that the poor fellow committed suicide, And you’--she flashed a swift denunciatory glance on Raphael Craig--‘are his murderer.’ The old man collected himself and stood up, his face calm, stately, livid. ‘Daughter,’ he said, ‘daughter--for I shall I still call you so, by the right of all that I have done for you--you have said a good deal in your anger that had been better left unsaid. But doubtless you have found a sufficient justification for your wrath. You are severe in your judgments. In youth we judge; in age we are merciful. You think you have been hardly done to. Perhaps it is so; but not by me--rather by fate. Even now I could tell you such things as would bring you to your knees at my feet, but I refrain. Like you, I am proud. Some day you will know all the truth--the secret of my actions and the final goal of my desires. And I think that on that day you will bless me. No man ever had a more sacred, a holier aim, than that which has been the aim of my life. I thank God it is now all but achieved.’ He lighted one of the candles which always stood on the bookcase in the hall, and passed into the drawing-room, where he sat down, leaving the door ajar. Richard crept towards the door and looked in. The old man sat motionless, absently holding the candle in his hand. The frontdoor opened from the outside, and Teresa ran into the house. She saw her father, and hastened, with a charming gesture, towards him.