“Your prudence, first of all--not a very trustworthy asset, if one may judge by your apparent confidence in your fellow-lodgers.” “O! him that looked in!” I said. “I will answer there with my life.” He raised his eyebrows. “Yes, that is the point,” said he. “Do you quite realise what you have done, Diana?” “O, quite!” “Well, that is a comfort. It gives me a sort of confidence in my future. So long as I can be played as live-bait for your capture, I shall be spared, no doubt.” He came up to me, and spoke very earnestly-- “Do you understand? He will try to trace you through me. If he succeeds”-- “There is an end of both of us,” I said cheerfully. “Well,” he answered, with admiration, “you are a game little partlet. But remember, at least, that revenge which evokes retribution misses the best half of itself. For that reason, if for no other, I must keep away from you. This visit to-night, even--I only dared it after infinite precautions. If you want me, write: I will risk some means to see you. For the rest, live close as death, till some of this, at least, is blown over. Your friend, the pretty simpleton, where is she?” “In bed and asleep.” “Keep her there. Make a dormouse of her. My Lady Sophia is nosing for her tracks, as my lord her brother for yours. Did you suppose she would acquiesce quietly in the abduction of her handmaid? I tell you, she has got wind of the truth; and there has been tempest in the house of Herring. Keep her close. Above everything, cut all further communication with the _World_--as you love yourself, and me a little, perhaps, Diana.” “As I love the truth,” I said; and went up and kissed him. “Ah!” he sighed, “that is very pretty. But, believe me, the truth, as represented by His Majesty, wishes your love at the devil before it meddled in his family affairs.” XXIV. I FIND A FRIEND IN NEED You know the truth, _mon ami_--that the face which looked in at my door was the face of my father. O, heavens, the reunion, so wonderful, so pathetic! and the sequel, so interesting! Truly, through our living fidelities do the gods chastise our worldliness. We had not been a day in the house when I ran across him in a passage. He was, it appeared, one of two gentlemen who lodged below. He was plainly, almost shabbily dressed; bloated a little; prematurely aged: but I knew him instantly. Though eleven years had gone since my childish eyes had last acknowledged and adored him, the instinct of nature was too sure to be deceived. I gasped, I trembled, as he stood ogling me; finally I threw myself into his arms. “Papa!” I cried; “papa!” “Hey!” he responded; “is that all?” “Do you not remember your little Diana?” I implored, in an ecstasy of emotion. “Wait,” he said, and put a hand to his forehead. “It may be on my notes. I’ve a damned bad memory.” The door of a room hard by stood open. He led me in, closed it, and seated himself officially at a table. “Now,” he said, “what mother?”