She was in and out of the kitchen, laying the table, and she did not speak to him on the matter which was near her heart, until he had drawn up his chair, and then: “I had a letter from Ray this morning, father,” she said. It was the first time she had mentioned the boy’s name since that night of horrible memories at Heron’s Club. “Yes?” he answered, without looking up from his plate. “He wanted to know if you had his letter.” “Yes, I had his letter,” said John Bennett, “but I didn’t answer it. If Ray wants to see me, he knows where I am. Did you hear from anybody else?” he asked, with surprising calm. She had been dreading what might follow the mention of Ray’s name. “I heard from Mr. Johnson. He has left Maitlands.” Bennett finished his glass of water and set it down before he replied. “He had a good job, too. I’m sorry. I suppose he couldn’t get on with the old man.” Should she tell him? she wondered again. She had been debating the advisability of taking her father into her confidence ever since—— “Father, I’ve met Mr. Maitland,” she said. “I know. You saw him at his office; you told me.” “I’ve met him since. You remember the morning I was out, when Captain Gordon came—the morning I went to the wood? I went to see Mr. Maitland.” He put down his knife and fork and stared at her incredulously. “But why on earth did you see him at that hour of the morning? Had you made arrangements to meet him?” She shook her head. “I hadn’t any idea that I was going to see him,” she said, “but that night I was wakened by somebody throwing a stone at the window. I thought it was Ray, who had come back late. That was his habit; I never told you, but sometimes he was very late indeed, and he used to wake me that way. It was just dawn, and when I looked out, to my astonishment, I saw Mr. Maitland. He asked me to come down in that queerly abrupt way of his, and, thinking it had something to do with Ray, I dressed and went out into the garden, not daring to wake you. We walked up the road to where his car was. It was the queerest interview you could imagine, because he said—nothing.” “Nothing?” “Well, he asked me if I’d be his friend. If it had been anybody else but Mr. Maitland, I should have been frightened. But he was so pathetic, so very old, so appealing. He kept saying ‘I’ll tell you something, miss,’ but every time he spoke he looked round with a frightened air. ‘Let’s go where we can’t be seen,’ he said, and begged me to step into the car. Of course I refused, until I discovered that the chauffeur was a woman—a very old woman, his sister. It was a most extraordinary experience. I think she must be nearly seventy, but during the war she learnt to drive a motor-car, and apparently she was wearing one of the chauffeur’s coats, and a more ludicrous sight you could not imagine, once you realized that she was a woman.