"I know," said Neil, with a faint smile. "The American parents! I believed in them until I went to New York. Then I made enquiries; but as I could find no trace of them, and could hear nothing about them, I began to doubt their existence. If it had not been for my relating that dream, you would not have informed me of the truth." "No," Mr. Cass said, honestly. "I would not, seeing what pain it must have inflicted upon you. I should have simply requested you to forget Ruth, and go away; the rest I would have spared you." "I thank you for your forbearance," Neil said, politely, but coldly. "But Providence knew that I had a duty to perform, and so gave me back the past. Oh, it was no miracle!" he went on, with a shrug. "I am not a believer in the supernatural, as you know. I can see how it all came about. Can't you?" "No; I confess that I am amazed that the dream should have been so accurate, or, indeed, that it should have come to you at all." "Dreams, I have heard, are only the impressions of our waking hours in more confused forms," said Webster, quietly. "And as I had received no injury to the brain itself, my memory was only dormant, not destroyed. It was awakened by the sight of the face in that photograph." "Ah! so it was," Mr. Cass said. "And the sight recalled your instinctive hatred for the man. That was why you fainted." "Exactly; and no doubt, all that night, my brain was busily running back through the years. Then I found the Turnpike House." "What took you there?" Neil shrugged his shoulders. "It might have been accident; but I do not think it was. My own belief is that the awakening of memory drew me there, and when I got into that room all came back to me in my sleep. However, I know the truth now, so nothing else matters. Henceforth I devote myself to proving the innocence of my mother." "You will never do that," Mr. Cass said, decisively. "You think so because you believe her guilty." "I believe her wrongs drove her mad, and that it was in a fit of madness she killed her husband. Yes." "Well, I don't agree with you," Neil said. "The first thing I intend to do is to see her. Where is she?" Cass wrote down the information on a slip of paper, and threw it across the table to the young man. "But I think you are starting on a wild-goose chase," he said. "Take my advice, and leave the matter alone. You are Neil Webster, the violinist. You have no connection with crime!" "No, I am Gilbert Jenner, the son of a murdered man and of a woman wrongfully accused. I loved your daughter, Mr. Cass--I love her still--but I give her up. I will not see her again. To-morrow morning I leave this house for ever!" "No," said his host, with decision. "If you intend to make an attempt to prove your mother's innocence, I have a right to help you, and to know your plans. So be it. Do your appointed work." He offered his hand. "As to Ruth----"