“You are not going back, then,” I remarked, indifferently. “Not I,” he declared. “I only went to make money, and I’ve made it--a good deal. Now I’m going to enjoy it, here, in the old country. Marry and settle down, and all that sort of thing, you know, Miss Ffolliot.” His keen, black eyes were fixed upon my face. I felt a slight flush of color in my cheeks. At that moment I hated Lady Naselton. She had been talking to this odious man about me, and he had been quick enough to understand her aright. I should have liked to have got up but for a certain reason. He had come from South America. He had arrived in London about the 15th. So I sat there and suffered. “A most praiseworthy ambition,” I remarked, with a sarcasm which I strove vainly to keep to myself. “I am sure I wish you every success.” “That is very good of you,” he answered, slowly. “Wishes count for a good deal sometimes. I am very thankful for yours.” “Wishes cost little,” I answered, coldly, “and I am afraid that mine are practically valueless. Have you been away from England long?” “For many years,” he answered, after a slight hesitation. “It seems odd,” I remarked, “that your first visit should be at the house of a comparative stranger. Have you no relations or old friends to welcome you back?” A slight and peculiar smile hovered upon his lips. “I have some old friends,” he said, quietly; “I do not know whether they will welcome me home again. Soon I shall know. I am not far away from them.” “Do they know of your return?” I asked. “Some of them. One of them I should say,” he answered. “The one about whom I care does not know.” “You are going to surprise him?” I remarked. “I am going to surprise her,” he corrected. There was a short silence. I had no more doubt in my mind. Chance had brought me face to face with the writer of that letter to my father, the man to find whom he was even now in London. Perhaps they had already met; I stole a glance at him; he was furtively watching me all the while. “I have also,” he said, “a sister of whom I am very fond. She lives in Paris. I have written to her to come to me--not here, of course, to London.” I turned a little in my chair and faced him. “I wonder,” I said, “if amongst those friends of whom you speak there is any one whom I know.” His lips parted, and he showed all his glistening white teeth. “Somehow,” he said, softly, under his breath, “I thought you knew. Has your father sent you here? Have you any message for me? If so, let me have it, we may be disturbed.” I shook my head. “My father is in London,” I told him. “He left the morning he had your letter.” “When is he coming back?” he asked, eagerly. “On Friday, I believe,” I answered. “I am not quite sure. At any rate, he will be here by Sunday.” An odd look flashed for a moment across the man’s face. It gave me an uneasy sensation. “Have you seen him in London?” I asked, quickly.