"She's not a newspaper woman--I know that," he returned. "I mistook her for your daughter." Giles Ilingsworth struggled wildly to his feet, and brushing his hair roughly from his forehead as he leaned over the Governor's desk and looked him full in the eye, he cried: "My daughter! My daughter----" "Stop!" ordered the Governor in commanding tones, the puzzled look on his face giving way to one of recognition, relief. "I've placed you now--yes, by Jove, I'm right--I know you!" He laughed with the surprise of it all. Ilingsworth continued to stare vacantly into space. "'And the rest by the names underneath,'" quoted the Governor, touching him on the arm, as though to arouse him. "Eh?" exclaimed the prisoner, working his fingers convulsively through his hair. "Listen to this!" And the Governor recited with almost boyish glee: "'I recognise Dante because he's tab-eared, And Virgil I know by his wreath, Old Homer I tell by his rough shaggy beard-- And the rest _by the names underneath_.'" "Don't you remember it?" he added, when he had finished the verse. Ilingsworth's face lighted up. "Why, sir," he cried, "it's my favourite. Where did you hear it?" "From your own lips," replied the Governor. "And at the same time you showed me that,"--and he pointed with his finger to the spot where the old man had brushed away his hair from his forehead--"the Heidelberg scar upon your head. And you were reading Dante at the time." Ilingsworth pulled a thumb-worn volume out of his pocket. "I've that copy of the Inferno yet," he murmured sadly. "It keeps reminding me.... My daughter"--he peered uncertainly at the Governor. "I'm curious to know, sir, when I met you. I can't seem to place you." "But I remember you very well indeed," rejoined the Governor. "I rode with you all day long to Buffalo, some months ago. We were on the Empire State Express together." "Buffalo?" said Ilingsworth. "I never went to Buffalo." "Oh, yes, you did," persisted the Governor; and drawing from his breast-pocket a diary he turned over the leaves rapidly until he came to a certain page. "Yes, you went to Buffalo on the 27th day of April, 190--that's the date." "I can't seem to remember it," was all that Ilingsworth said; but at that moment a figure sprang towards the Governor, and a voice cried in his ear: "The date--what was that date? The twenty-seventh day of what?" "April." "Please repeat it." The Governor repeated it. "Are you absolutely sure?" she cried. "Of course," he answered. "Why?" "And you say you took the Empire State Express?" demanded Madeline Braine, almost beside herself with excitement. "What time does it leave in the morning?" "It leaves always at the same time--eight-thirty in the morning." "It was an all-day ride?" "Yes." "And Giles Ilingsworth was near you all the way? You're sure that you were with him on the Empire State Express at eleven o'clock--eleven in the morning that day?" "Surely I was."