All this time he had not been unmindful of the great quest of his life. He never forgot, even when the fight was at the highest, the loneliness of his mother's life and the shadow that rested upon her. Indeed he had, from the time of his returning from Scotland, made constant and continuous efforts to discover the man who had blackened her name. All his efforts, however, were unavailing. Every road seemed to be a cul-de-sac. Either Douglas Graham had given his mother a false name or else he had left the country, and thus made it impossible for him to find him; or he might be dead--it was quite possible. During the lapse of twenty-five years anything might happen. Still, he had a feeling that his father was alive, and he owed it to his mother, he owed it to himself, to penetrate the mystery. Why he should connect Mary Bolitho with all this he did not know; nevertheless, it was a fact that her face was never missing from the picture which he drew of the future. Somehow she was always connected with the efforts he was making. Often he dreamed of the time when he would be able to get her and say, "My name is as honourable as yours, as free from stain as yours. I have found my father." But the months went by and his search was unavailing, and the questions he was constantly asking were never answered. He had never seen his mother since the day he left her on the Altarnun Moors. More than once he had suggested that she should come and live with him, but she had refused. Frequently, too, when writing to her, he had asked her whether he might come and see her, but she had persistently opposed this. "No, Paul," she said. "Your coming would only lead to questions. Here I am allowed to bury my secret in my own heart, and while my life is lonely enough, I can bear it until the day when justice is done to me." At length, however, Paul could bear it no longer.