He looked away from her with a queer feeling in his throat. To see his daughter, who had always been so quiet, and self-contained, and dignified--his princess, he had been used to call her--to see her trembling with nervous fear, was a new and terrible thing to him, and to be able to offer her no comfort was worse still. But what could he say? "The evidence was rather bad," he admitted, "and only a portion of it was produced. Still, we must hope for the best." "Please tell me all about it," she begged, very quietly, but with a look in her white face which made him turn away from her with a groan. But he obeyed, and told her everything. And then there was a long silence. "How did he look?" she asked, after a while. "Very pale; but he behaved in a most dignified manner throughout," he told her. "He must be well born. I wonder what or where his people are? I never heard of any of them. Did you?" She shook her head. "He told me once that he had no friends, and no relations, and no name save the one which he had made for himself," she said. "I don't know whether he meant that Maddison was not his real name, or whether he meant simply his reputation." "There must be people in London who know all about him," Mr. Thurwell remarked. "A man of his celebrity can scarcely conceal his family history." Helen had walked a little away, and was standing before the window, looking out with listless eyes. "Father, I wonder whether Sir Allan Beaumerville has anything to do with this?" she said. "Has he ever hinted to you that he suspected Mr. Maddison?" "Certainly not," he answered. "Why do you ask?" "Because one afternoon last week I saw him come out of Falcon's Nest. It was the afternoon he went botanizing." Mr. Thurwell shook his head. "The detective mentioned the date of his visit and search," he said. "It was a month ago." She wrung her hands, and turned away in despair. "It must have been through those dreadful people I went to," she sobbed. "Oh, I was mad--mad!" "I scarcely think that," Mr. Thurwell said thoughtfully. "They would not have kept altogether in the background and let Scotland Yard take the lead, if it had been so. What is it, Roberts?" The servant had entered bearing an orange-colored envelope on a salver, which he carried towards Helen. "A telegram for Miss Thurwell, sir," he said. She took it and tore it open. It was from the Strand, London, and the color streamed into her cheeks as she read it aloud. "We must see you at once in the interests of B. M. Can you call on us to-morrow morning? Levy & Son." "When are the assizes at York, father?" she asked quickly. "In ten days." "And you are going to London to-day, are you not, to see Dewes?" "Yes." "Then I will go with you," she said, crumpling up the telegram in her hand. CHAPTER XXXVI MR. LEVY PROMISES TO DO HIS BEST