“I hardly know,” she said in a slightly shaky voice, “exactly what to think.” She lifted her eyes again to his as though to search him through and through. “At any rate,” asked Westerham, with a smile, “have you a sufficiently good opinion of me to grant me just a few moments to say something?” “It seems I cannot help myself,” she said, with a pained little laugh. “Lady Kathleen,” he answered earnestly, “you are very much upset. I assure you that if you will only hear me out you will not regret it—at least you may rest assured that you will be free from any insult or annoyance. “It will take me some few minutes to explain,” he went on, “and so I think it would be best for you to sit down.” Without waiting for an answer he took her by the hand and led her gently to the steps. She sank down on them with a heavy sigh. “The other night,” said Westerham, “I was sufficiently honest to save you from an awkward situation.” Lady Kathleen was about to speak, but he would not allow it. “No, no!” he urged, “I did not mention it to be thanked again. I have been more than thanked already. I only did what any ordinary decent man would do. I have no desire to dwell on that. Indeed, I simply mentioned it in order that I might convince you that I wish you well.” “But you knew that man,” she cried; “you must have known him.” Westerham stared at Lady Kathleen with some astonishment. “I give you my word that I did not know him then,” he said, “even if I know him now.” “Ah!” she darted a look of suspicion at him. “Yes, I know Bagley, and I know Melun, and I know a man called Crow.” Lady Kathleen's face blanched. “And what else?” she asked. He threw out his arms. “Nothing! I swear to you I know absolutely nothing else, except—and that, of course, is obvious—that you and your father go in deadly fear of all the three. Why, I cannot tell. If you will only enlighten me a little I may do much to help you.” “No, no!” she cried, “it is simply out of the question. The secret is not mine, but my father's.” “Then let me go to Lord Penshurst,” urged Westerham. The girl started and thought for a few minutes before she answered. “No,” she said at last, slowly, “you must not do that. He would not understand.” “You mean,” said Westerham, “he would merely regard me as one who might be termed ‘one of the gang.’” The girl nodded. “But I assure you,” Westerham laughed, “that I am not.” To his surprise the girl looked him straight in the face. “I wish I felt quite sure,” she said. Westerham flushed with almost a flush of anger. “This,” he cried, “is an intolerable situation. If you would only confide in me I would confide in you. “I am not what I seem. I am no mere man-about-town. I am not one of Melun's dupes. I am not of a certainty one of his friends—even though I may appear to be associated with him.