For some seconds nobody spoke a word. Austin Wingate was trying hard to control his emotion. Grant, in the background, was crying like a child. Then Mrs Saxton advanced, her own eyes dim with the pathos of the scene--of this sudden reunion of father and daughter. "I have brought him back to you," she said, in a voice that trembled. "But he is very weak and ill. Let us take him to the library at once. You shall learn everything from me." Tenderly, the two, Sheila and her lover, led the poor, worn man to the room in which he had spent so many happy hours, Mrs Saxton following. They placed him in the big arm-chair, and his daughter knelt beside him. Wingate standing in front. Then suddenly, the girl pointed a trembling finger at the woman gowned in grey, and her eyes took on a hard, steely look. "What has she to do with it?" she asked, hoarsely. Almost in a whisper came her father's words: "Everything; she had to do with it from the beginning. But listen to her; for without her aid I should not be here to-night; perhaps I should never have been here, or, if so, such a hopeless wreck that life would have been no blessing." His voice broke as he ended, and he raised Sheila's hand to his lips. And then Mrs Saxton spoke, at first hesitatingly, and in tones that trembled with her terrible emotion. But as she went on her courage came back, and she enunciated her words clearly and distinctly. "I know you must hate me. Miss Monkton, and I deserve your hatred. Perhaps, later on, you will judge me a little less harshly, in consideration of the fact that I repented at the eleventh hour, and saved him from these fiends who were bent upon his undoing." Sheila and Wingate regarded her intently, but neither spoke a word to relieve her embarrassment, or give any indication that they regarded her with anything but the deepest loathing. "Mr Monkton and I have been to Scotland Yard, and seen Smeaton, the detective. I know from him that you are acquainted with all the actors in this tragedy, including myself. He has told me of your coming across me at the post-office, of your reading the telegram which I sent to Brighton to the man known as Bolinski, who is now in the hands of justice, along with the partner of his crime." She paused a moment, and then resumed her narrative in the midst of a chilling and hostile silence. "My connection with it all arose from my intimate acquaintance with the man Stent. It would not interest you to know how I fell under his influence and domination; it would reflect too much discredit on both-- on him who persuaded, on me who yielded. You know already that Stent and Bolinski were the two men who abducted your father. What you do not know is that this plan was maturing for, at least, a couple of years. Further, you do not know that they were not the instigators, but the instruments of this outrage." "And their motive?" questioned Wingate sharply.