"He is going to. He _must_ marry me. Ah! You don't know--you--" My love shuddered, without completing her sentence. "Why? Is it to save your father?" I hazarded again. "To save my father--and my mother," she exclaimed. And then, to my surprise, she sank upon a chair, flung her arms out upon the table in front of her, hid her face up on them, and began to sob hysterically. "Vera, my dearest, don't--oh! don't," I said beseechingly, as I bent down, put an arm tenderly about her, and kissed her upon the cheek. "Don't cry like that, darling. It's never too late, until a misfortune has really happened. You are not married to him. There may be a way of escape. Trust me. Treat me as a friend--we have been friends so long-- tell me everything, and I will try to help you out of all your trouble." She started up. "Trust you!" she burst forth, her face flushed. "Can I trust any one?" "I've done nothing; I don't know what you mean, or to what you refer!" I exclaimed blankly. "Can you look at me like that," she said slowly, after a pause, "and tell me, upon your oath, that you did not reveal my father's secret; that you have never revealed it to anybody--never in your life?" "I give you my solemn oath, Vera, that I have never in my life revealed it to anybody, or hinted at it, or said anything, either consciously or unconsciously, that might have led any one to suspect," I answered fervently, with my eyes fixed on hers. Truth to tell, I had not the remotest idea what the secret was, nor, until this instant, had it ever occurred to me to think that Sir Charles possessed a secret. I felt, however, that I had a part to play, and I was determined to play it to the best of my ability. Vera seemed to take it quite for granted that I knew her father's secret, and I felt instinctively that, were I to endeavour to assure her that I was in complete ignorance of everything, she would not, under the circumstances, believe a single word I said. "Do you believe me now?" I asked, as she did not speak. "Yes--I do believe you," was her slow response. And then she let me take her in my ready arms again. She seemed to have been suddenly relieved of a great weight, and now she spoke in quite her ordinary way. "Where is Paulton now?" was my next question. At last there seemed to be some remote possibility of the tangle of past events becoming gradually unravelled. I knew, however, that I was treading thin ice. A single careless word might lead her to suspect my duplicity. In a sense, I was still groping in the dark, pretending that I knew a great deal, whereas I knew nothing. "He is coming to-night to fetch me." "At what time?" "At ten o'clock." "And you are to wait here until then?" "Yes." "What have you had to eat?" "Some tea, and bread and butter," and she glanced towards a table, on which stood a teapot and an empty plate. "You can't subsist on that," I said quickly.