Again there was a long silence between them. The thoughts of the girl ranged back over her past life, from the time her father forbade her to come to the office until the present moment, flashing like a searchlight upon events hitherto misunderstood, making them stand out in their true proportions. All her father’s actions, his words, had to be reconsidered. She saw meanings in former phrases that had been hidden from her: she had now the key that unlocked the room illumined by knowledge; and although her heart yearned towards her father, sympathizing with him when confronted by an unexpected problem, and fully condoning his apparent lack of trust in keeping her ignorant of a situation so closely concerning herself, feeling that she ought to stand by him and repel the stranger who had so daringly come between them with his preposterous claim upon her affection, yet from no part of her being could she call to her aid that emotion of just resentment against Marsten which she knew ought to be at her command. “I am very, very sorry,” she said at last, speaking slowly. “I like you, of course--I think you are a noble, earnest man, and that you will do good and overcome many difficulties; but I don’t care for you in the way you wish, and it would not be right to be dishonest with you. I should like to see you get on in the world, and I am sure you will. Some day you will write to me and tell me of your victories, and I shall be glad. It will make me happy then to know you have forgotten--this. Now you must go. Good-by!” She rose, holding out her hand to him, and he saw her eyes were wet. “Good-by!” he said, turning away. Edna sat down, but did not pick up her book. With her hands listless in her lap, she gazed out at the blue sky, thinking. Presently, to her surprise, Marsten returned. “You have forgotten your broom,” she said, with a wavering smile trembling on her lips. “I had forgotten more than that,” he said, “I had forgotten my mission.” “Your mission?” “Yes; my false pretences do not stop at climbing walls. I am really a traitorous messenger; for the device by which I came here was arranged by another, who wished me to take a letter to you. He is in Eastbourne, and had written to you, but his letter was returned to him. He has written another--here it is.” “Of whom are you speaking?” “Mr. Barnard Hope.” “Oh!”