"I knew, from what my father said, that you were in trouble, Rupert, and I felt that you needed me. For that reason I flung a cloak over my dinner-dress and came on here. Mrs. Beatson would be very shocked if she knew that I was sitting alone with you in the garden in this hour." "Mrs. Beatson is the kind of woman who would be shocked, however innocent the thing that startled her might be. So your father told you of our interview in Leigh's study?" "Yes. That is, he told me about the missing will, and how Mrs. Beatson overheard what poor Mr. Leigh had to say on the matter." "What else did he tell you?" asked Hendle anxiously. "My dear," Dorinda's eyes opened widely, "what else was there to tell?" "Hum!" murmured the Squire doubtfully. "Your father let out just as much as suited him. Let us talk of what he did tell you to begin with; afterward, we can talk of what he did not tell you. Yet"--Rupert tugged at his moustache nervously--"I am not quite sure if I should speak frankly." "I am," retorted Dorinda, giving his hand a squeeze, "if I am to help you, I must know everything." "I don't feel quite certain if that is playing the game." "Is my father playing the game?" questioned the girl, with a shrug. "No," answered Rupert decidedly, "he isn't. And it is that which makes it so hard for me to be frank. After all, your father is your father, dear, and I have no right to say anything which will lower him in your esteem." Dorinda laughed rather sadly. "Dear, I have no illusions left about my father," she said, in a low tone, "he has never been a father to me, as you know very well. I have tried my best to respect and love him, but his actions and life are such that I can do neither. Be as open with me as you can, Rupert, for you know that my father will not spare either of us where his own feelings are at stake. Therefore, it only seems fair to me that we should not spare him, more than is necessary, on account of my unfortunate relationship to him." "Do you really think so, Dorinda?" "Yes, I do. If my father deserved filial affection, he should have it. But, as he has made no attempt to secure it, how can I give it to him? And remember, you are to be my husband and your interests are mine, even though my father's selfish desires intervene. You have the greatest claim on me." Rupert heaved a sigh of relief. "I am so glad to hear you say that," he remarked thankfully, "for I badly need some one who can help me and sympathize with me. I thought Carrington would prove to be a pal, but, like everyone else, he is eaten up with greed for money." "What makes you say that?" "He said that he would only help me on condition that I paid him." "Ah-r-r-r," said Dorinda, much disgusted. "I told you that I did not like him, Rupert. He is a bad man." "Oh, not so bad as that, dear. A little greedy perhaps, but not wholly bad." "He is a bad man," repeated Dorinda, obstinately. "As my father said, long ago, all he wants is to get money out of you."