"It is madness--sheer madness," she exclaimed, when I had outlined my scheme, "and if you will take my advice--you know my advice is generally sound--you will at once abandon the idea, Dick. It is very well for you to say that my father is your friend, but you don't know my father--you don't know him as I know him. There are two sides to his character. Indeed, I would say he is really two men in one. The man you know is very different from the other man--my father as you have never seen him, and as I hope you never will see him. He can become perfectly savage. He has a temper that is altogether unmanageable when once it gets the better of him. It doesn't often, but when it does-- "No, don't do it, dear, don't, I beg of you. I ask you not to. I beg you not to if you really love me." "I must," I answered, with a firmness that surprised her. "I have gone too far now to draw back, even if I wanted to, which I don't. I am going to see this thing through. I'm going to discover the mystery of that house. I don't care what risks I take, or what happens, but I am going to see for myself what all this secret business means." To my surprise she began to laugh. "Dick," she said, "I sometimes wonder if you are quite `all there.' Why on earth can't you let people alone, and mind your own business? Supposing Whichelo should turn upon you--good Heavens, he could squeeze the life out of you with one hand." "Whichelo?" I asked, puzzled, still holding her soft hand in mine. "Yes. You said when you looked in at the window you saw Whichelo with my father." Instantly I put two and two together. So the big, dark giant whom I had known only as Davies was called Whichelo! At last I had found out! "And why should this man with the funny name, this Whichelo, want to `squeeze the life out of me' as you so picturesquely put it?" I inquired carelessly, rising and crossing to the window, the blinds of which were not drawn. "For the simple reason," she answered, "that of course he won't allow you to reveal the secret that has been kept so well, and so long. He and my father would stick at nothing to prevent that--believe me. I tell you again, I know my father." Somehow, though she spoke calmly, I felt she had some very strong incentive for not wanting me to enter the house and see what was happening there. She seemed to dread my carrying out my plan. Yet apparently she was not anxious on my account. But my mind was now made up. Nothing, I was determined, should stop me. I believed that I was on the eve of making discoveries which would lead to the unravelling of the mystery of Houghton Park, and the mysteries which had followed. "Good-night, darling," I said, going back to her. I took her in my arms and kissed her. As I did so, I thought I felt her sob. "Why, Vera, what is the matter?" I exclaimed, releasing her. "The matter?" she said, forcing a smile. "Nothing. Oh! nothing at all, dear. Why?" "You--you seemed worried."