He took them to the railway after this--to the railway again, after all their past fatigue. He was not negligent, however, of their comfort, but made them eat at the buffet, and took a _coupé_ for them, filling it with all the picture-books and papers he could find, with baskets of fruit and chocolate and bonbons. “Here is a corner where my little Janey can go to sleep,” he said, putting the child tenderly into it when the train had started. Janey jumped upon his knee, and began to chatter and give him an account of her own achievements at the shop. “They understood me,” said the little thing, “better than Helen. I can’t speak French, but they understood me better than Helen. Papa, do you hear? they understood me----” Here she paused and gave a sudden cry. She had a pretty way of calling the attention of the careless listener, drawing his face round with her little hand upon his chin. “Papa!” she said, in great alarm, “you have dot hair on your chin, and it moves. Oh! papa!” His face grew crimson. He turned the child down from his knee, giving her a sudden sharp blow on the cheek with his open hand--a blow which was nothing, yet like a revolution of earth and heaven to Janey, and to Helen too. Then, muttering a curse under his breath, he turned to Helen, who was watching him, pale with terror and wonder and indignation. “Well!” he said, defiantly; “out with it! You are a spy upon me too. Let me hear what you have got to say.” “I have nothing to say, papa,” said Helen, trembling. She looked at him wistfully, with miserable insight in her eyes. She saw now that it was all false--hair and complexion and even expression. It seemed to her, as she looked at him, that it was not her father at all; that it was some strange masquerader of whose identity she never could be sure again. There had been no special devotion between Helen and her father; he had been kind but careless, and she too had been careless, though affectionate enough; but the miserable pang with which she seemed to lose her hold of him, and with him of everything solid and steadfast in the world, was more terrible than anything she had ever felt before. Her life seemed to be rent up by the roots. Janey, whimpering and astonished, took refuge in her corner, and by-and-by, worn out, dropped happily asleep. But Helen could not sleep. Worn out too, but watchful, she sat upright by her father’s side, not venturing to look at him, seeing the long, flat, level lines of the country fly past the carriage-windows with a tedium that made her eyes ache. And he too sat bolt-upright, not looking at her. She had found him out; and he perceived that she had found him out; but yet she had not got a step farther, or discovered any real clue to the meaning of the flight which she shared.