She leaned back in her seat, murmuring something to herself which I could not catch. Past-mistress of deceit though she may have been, I was convinced that her consternation at my statement was honest. She did not speak or look at me again for some time. As for me, I sat silent with the horror of a thought. Underneath the rug my limbs were cold and lifeless. I sat looking out of the rain-splashed window into the darkness, with fixed staring eyes, and a hideous fancy in my brain. Every now and then I thought that I could see it--a white evil face pressed close to the blurred glass, grinning in upon me. Every shriek of the engine--and there were many just then, for we were passing through a network of tunnels--brought beads of moisture on to my forehead, made me start and shake like a criminal. Surely that was a cry! I started in my seat, only to see that my companion, now her old self again, was watching me intently. "I am afraid," she said softly, "that you are not very strong. The excitement of talking of these things has been too much for you." "I have never had a day's illness in my life," I answered. "I am perfectly well." "I am glad," she said simply. "I must finish what I was telling you. Your father was continually talking and thinking of you. He knew all about you at college. He knew about your degree, of your cricket and rowing. Lately he began to get restless. He lost sight of you after you left Oxford, and it worried him. There were reasons, as you know, why it was not well for him to come to England, but nevertheless he determined to brave it out. It was to find you that he risked so much. He left me on New Year's Day, and I have never heard a word from him since. That is why I came to England." "The whole reason?" I asked, like a fool. "The whole reason," she affirmed simply. "I do not wish to see my father," I said. "If he comes to me I shall tell him so." "He wants to tell you his story himself," she murmured. "I would never listen to it," I answered. She sighed. "You are very young," she said. "You do not know what temptation is. You do not know how badly he was treated. You have heard his history, perhaps, from his enemies. He is getting old now, Guy. I think that if you saw him now you would pity him." "My pity," I answered, "would never be strong enough to suffer me to open the door to him--if he should come. He has left me alone all these years. The only favour I would ever ask of him would be that he continues to do so." "You will believe the story of strangers?" "No one in the world could be a greater stranger to me than he." She sighed. "You will not even let me be your friend," she pleaded. "You are young, you are perhaps ambitious. There may be many ways in which I could help you." "As you helped my father, perhaps," I answered bitterly. "Thank you, I have no need of friends--that sort of friends." Her eyes seemed to narrow a little, and the smile upon her lips was forced.