We turned our backs upon the more familiar places, and walked slowly along the country which led to the Downs. We neither of us spoke a word for some time. Once or twice I glanced towards him with concern. He was moving with uncertain steps, and every now and then he pressed his hand to his side. Physically, I could see that he was scarcely equal to the exertion of walking. It was mental disquiet which had brought him out. His eyes were dry and bright, and there was a hectic flush upon his cheeks. As we passed from the lane out on to the open Downs, he drew a little breath and removed his hat. The autumn wind swept through his hair, and blew open his coat. He took in a long breath of it. “This is good,” he said, softly. “Let us rest here.” We sat upon the trunk of a fallen pine tree on the verge of the common. Far away on the hillside rose the red chimneys of Naselton Hall. I looked at them, and of a sudden the desire to tell my father what I knew of that man’s presence there grew stronger and stronger. After all it was his right to know. It was best to tell him. “Father,” I said, “I have something to say to you. It is something which I think you ought to know.” He looked away from vacancy into my face. Something in my manner seemed to attract him. He frowned, and answered me sharply. “What is it, child? Only mind that it is not a question.” “It is not a question.” I said. “It is something that I want to tell you. Perhaps I ought to have told you before. One afternoon last week I was at Lady Naselton’s for tea. I met a man there--half a foreigner he seemed to me. He had lately returned from South America. His name was Berdenstein.” He heard me in perfect silence. He did not utter a single exclamation. Only I saw his head sink, and a curious marble rigidity settle down upon his features, chasing away all expression. In the silence which followed before I spoke again I could hear his breathing sharp and low, almost like the panting of an animal in pain. “Don’t think that I have been spying on you, father,” I begged. “It all came about so naturally. I gave you your letters the morning that you went away, and I could not help seeing that one of them was from South America. On the envelope was written: ‘In London about the 15th.’ Well, as you left for London at once, I considered that you went to meet that person, whoever it was. Then at Lady Naselton’s this man stared at me so, and he told me that he came from South America. Some instinct seemed to suggest to me that this was the man who had written that letter. I talked to him for awhile, and I was sure of it.” Then my father spoke. He was like a man who had received a stroke. His voice seemed to come from a great distance. His eyes were fixed upon that break in the trees on the distant hillside beyond which was Naselton Hall. “So near,” he said, softly--”so very near! How did he come here? Was it chance?”