“Don’t say that! You are free, you have money, you will travel about in the world and amuse yourself. In a week you will see more than stay-at-home people see in a year. How do we know what the future has in store for us? I have my own idea. She may be lost in the labyrinth of London, or she may be hundreds of thousands of miles away. Amuse yourself, Amelius--amuse yourself. Tomorrow or ten years hence, you might meet with her!” In sheer mercy to the poor creature, Amelius refused to encourage her delusion. “Even supposing such a thing could happen,” he objected, “how am I to know the lost girl? You can’t describe her to me; you have not seen her since she was a child. Do you know anything of what happened at the time--I mean at the time when she was lost?” “I know nothing.” “Absolutely nothing?” “Absolutely nothing.” “Have you never felt a suspicion of how it happened?” Her face changed: she frowned as she looked at him. “Not till weeks and months had passed,” she said, “not till it was too late. I was ill at the time. When my mind got clear again, I began to suspect one particular person--little by little, you know; noticing trifles, and thinking about them afterwards.” She stopped, evidently restraining herself on the point of saying more. Amelius tried to lead her on. “Did you suspect the person--?” he began. “I suspected him of casting the child helpless on the world!” Mrs. Farnaby interposed, with a sudden burst of fury. “Don’t ask me any more about it, or I shall break out and shock you!” She clenched her fists as she said the words. “It’s well for that man,” she muttered between her teeth, “that I have never got beyond suspecting, and never found out the truth! Why did you turn my mind that way? You shouldn’t have done it. Help me back again to what we were saying a minute ago. You made some objection; you said--?” “I said,” Amelius reminded her, “that, even if I did meet with the missing girl, I couldn’t possibly know it. And I must say more than that--I don’t see how you yourself could be sure of recognizing her, if she stood before you at this moment.” He spoke very gently, fearing to irritate her. She showed no sign of irritation--she looked at him, and listened to him, attentively. “Are you setting a trap for me?” she asked. “No!” she cried, before Amelius could answer, “I am not mean enough to distrust you--I forgot myself. You have innocently said something that rankles in my mind. I can’t leave it where you have left it; I don’t like to be told that I shouldn’t recognize her. Give me time to think. I must clear this up.” She consulted her own thoughts, keeping her eyes fixed on Amelius. “I am going to speak plainly,” she announced, with a sudden appearance of resolution. “Listen to this. When I banged to the door of that big cupboard of mine, it was because I didn’t want you to see something on the shelves. Did you see anything in spite of me?”