Mr. Peters could make nothing of this exclamation, and he was deterred from seeking light by the sudden action of his host, who, bounding from his seat with a vivacity of which one would not have believed him capable, charged to the French window and emitted a bellow. “Wilhelmina!” Billie looked up from her sketching-block with a start. It seemed to her that there was a note of anguish, of panic, in that voice. What her father could have found in the drawing-room to be frightened at, she did not know; but she dropped her block and hurried to his assistance. “What is it, father?” Mr. Bennett had retired within the room when she arrived; and, going in after him, she perceived at once what had caused his alarm. There before her, looking more sinister than ever, stood the lunatic Peters; and there was an ominous bulge in his right coat-pocket which to her excited senses betrayed the presence of the revolver. What Jno. Peters was, as a matter of fact, carrying in his right coat-pocket was a bag of mixed chocolates which he had purchased in Windlehurst. But Billie’s eyes, though bright, had no X-ray quality. Her simple creed was that, if Jno. Peters bulged at any point, that bulge must be caused by a pistol. She screamed, and backed against the wall. Her whole acquaintance with Jno Peters had been one constant backing against walls. “Don’t shoot!” she cried, as Mr. Peters absent-mindedly dipped his hand into the pocket of his coat. “Oh, please don’t shoot!” “What the deuce do you mean?” said Mr. Bennett irritably. “Wilhelmina, this man says that you told him you loved him.” “Yes, I did, and I do. Really, really, Mr. Peters, I do!” “Suffering cats!” Mr. Bennett clutched at the back of his chair. “But you’ve only met him once,” he added almost pleadingly. “You don’t understand, father dear,” said Billie desperately. “I’ll explain the whole thing later, when....” “Father!” ejaculated Jno. Peters feebly. “Did you say ‘father?’” “Of course I said ‘father!’” “This is my daughter, Mr. Peters.” “My daughter! I mean, your daughter! Are—are you sure?” “Of course I’m sure. Do you think I don’t know my own daughter?” “But she called me Mr. Peters!” “Well, it’s your name, isn’t it?” “But, if she—if this young lady is your daughter, how did she know my name?” The point seemed to strike Mr. Bennett. He turned to Billie. “That’s true. Tell me, Wilhelmina, when did you and Mr. Peters meet?” “Why, in—in Sir Mallaby Marlowe’s office, the morning you came there and found me when I was talking to Sam.” Mr. Peters uttered a subdued gargling sound. He was finding this scene oppressive to a not very robust intellect. “He—Mr. Samuel—told me your name was Miss Milliken,” he said dully. Billie stared at him. “Mr. Marlowe told you my name was Miss Milliken!” she repeated.