He tried to let her understand something of the period of depression through which he had passed, and he found her, as ever, wonderfully sympathetic, quick to comprehend, keenly interested. They talked of his novel, he told her of his new ideas, of the fancies which had come dancing into his brain during the last few hours. But she was perhaps more moved than at any time, when he spoke of that wonderful visit of his to the Abbey. He tried to make her feel what it had meant to him, and in a measure he succeeded. Suddenly he stopped--almost in the middle of a sentence. He was astonished to realise how pretty she was. "Now tell me about yourself," he said. "Have you sent anything to Drexley yet?" She nodded. "I think Mr. Drexley is quite the nicest man I know," she declared gaily. "I sent him three little fairy tales, and last week he sent me a cheque for them and asked for more. And do you know what he said, Douglas? I asked him to let me have his honest opinion as to whether I could make enough to live on by such work as I sent him, and he replied that there could be no possible doubt about it. He wants me to write something longer." He took her hand--which she yielded to him frankly--and forgot to restore it. He was honestly delighted. He noticed too that her fingers were very shapely and their touch--she had withdrawn her gloves--a pleasant thing. "Cissy," he said, "I must see more of you. We are comrades and fellow-workers. We have begun to do the things we talked about up amongst the hills in the old days. Do you remember how we lay in the heather and the dreams we had? Actually I believe that they are coming true." Her dark eyes were soft with reminiscences and her face was brilliant with smiles. "It sounds delightful, cousin Douglas," she replied. "Oh, if only Joan would come to her senses. It seems like a thunderbolt always hanging over us. I believe that if she were to see us together she would go mad." "I have little to reproach myself with as regards Joan," he said. "Of course that night must always be a black chapter in my life. I could not get to London without money, and I took only a part of what was my own. I need not tell you, Cicely, that I never raised my hand against your father." Her fingers closed upon his. "I believe you, Douglas, but there is something I must ask." "Whilst we are talking of it ask me. Then we will put the subject away for ever." "Do you know who it was?" His face grew very pale and stern. "I believe I do," he answered. "And you are shielding him? Your silence is shielding him, is it not?" "I am doing more," he said. "I destroyed my own identity, and the Douglas Guest of Feldwick is an accounted murderer by others besides Joan. I can tell you only this, Cissy. I did it because it seemed to me the best and the most merciful thing to be done." She looked at him gravely. "He was my father, Douglas, and though I am not like Joan, yet I too would have justice done."