He looked down at the ground, thinking deeply. Most men would have been unable to think at all, unable to concentrate their thoughts on anything save their escape from death. But a life of daily risk and hazard had so hardened this man that I was certain, as I watched him, that he was not praying nor giving thanks. He was already pondering how he might make the most out of the change; how he might to the best advantage sell his knowledge of the government whose hours were numbered to the government which soon would be. The life of intrigue had become second nature to him. He looked up and our eyes met. We gazed at one another. "Why are you here?" he said curiously. "Why did they leave you? Why were you the one to stop to set me free, Master Carey?" "My name is not Carey," I answered. "What is it, then?" he asked carelessly. "Cludde," I answered softly. "Cludde!" He called it out. Even his self-mastery could not cope with this surprise. "Cludde," he said again--said it twice in a lower voice. "Yes, Cludde," I answered, meeting and yet shrinking from his questioning eyes, "my name is Cludde. So is yours. I tried to save your life, because I learned from Mistress Anne----" I paused. I shrank from telling him that which, as it seemed to me, would strike him to the ground in shame and horror. But he had no fear. "What?" he cried. "What did you learn?" "That you are my father," I answered slowly. "I am Francis Cludde, the son whom you deserted many years ago, and to whom Sir Anthony gave a home at Coton." I expected him to do anything except what he did. He stared at me with astonished eyes for a minute, and then a low whistle issued from his lips. "My son, are you! My son!" he said coolly. "And how long have you known this, young sir?" "Since yesterday," I murmured. The words he had used on that morning at Santon, when he had bidden me die and rot, were fresh in my memory--in my memory, not in his. I recalled his treachery to the Duchess, his pursuit of us, his departure with Anne, the words in which he had cursed me. He remembered apparently none of these things, but simply gazed at me with a thoughtful smile. "I wish I had known it before," he said at last. "Things might have been different. A pretty dutiful son you have been!" The sneer did me good. It recalled to my mind what Master Bertie had said. "There can be no question of duty between us," I answered firmly. "What duty I owe to any one of my family, I owe to my uncle." "Then why have you told me this?" "Because I thought it right you should know it," I answered, "were it only that, knowing it, we may go different ways. We have nearly done one another a mischief more than once," I added gravely.