"The person I wish to see is a lady, a young one, Miss Gilbert--Miss Dorothy Gilbert." The listener's heart stood still; she was overwhelmed by that curious feeling of vertigo to which she seemed to have grown subject of late. Probably the man in the boat misinterpreted her silence; he went on to explain himself further. "I have just been informed, Miss Vernon, that Miss Dorothy Gilbert is a friend of yours, and that, at present, she is a guest of yours; I hope my information is correct." The girl on the steps found her voice again; at anyrate, in part. "Do--do you know Miss Gilbert?" "It may sound odd, considering, but I don't; any more than I know Miss Vernon. But I hope to find an open sesame to her acquaintance in the fact that I did know her father intimately; to all intents and purposes he and I were lifelong friends." "My father!--you knew my father!" The girl on the steps stood up. The full strength of her voice had all at once come back. She spoke in tones which might have been audible on the other side of the river. The man in the boat seemed to be as startled by her words, and by her instant change of manner, as she had been by the discovery of his identity. There was a sudden splashing, as if, in his surprise, he had let the blades of his oars drop into the water; then an exclamation, as he woke to the fact that the boat had drifted from its original place. Presently he brought it back. "Your father?--did you say your father? Then, in that case, I suppose you are Dorothy Gilbert--Harry Gilbert's daughter." "I am." "Are you sure. Why did you give me to understand that you were Miss Vernon?" "I wanted to find out who it was you wanted to see; it was you who said I was Miss Vernon; I didn't. Did you say you knew my father?" "Rather; no man knew him better. Then if you are Dorothy Gilbert, perhaps it's just as well that I've come upon you in this queer fashion; if you don't mind, I'll step ashore. I suppose this is Mr Vernon's garden?" She told him that it was. "I can't quite make out what kind of landing this is, but if you'll catch hold of the painter, so as to make sure of the boat, I'll do the rest." She did not know what the painter was, but she took the cord which he held out, and kept it till she was able to transfer it to him when he also was standing on the steps by her side. "The accommodation seems limited down here; suppose we get up higher." She ascended the steps; he followed; the cord was long enough to permit of his retaining it in his grasp even when he stood on the lawn. The moment they had reached the lawn she fired at him a question. "What is your name?"' "Arnecliffe--Leonard Arnecliffe." "Then why did you say it was Gilbert?" "Gilbert?--I said my name was Gilbert?--What on earth do you mean?" "To the waiter at 'The Bolton Arms.'"