“I was bewildered when I found that you had not mentioned it,” I faltered. “I do not understand. Please tell me.” He looked steadily into my eyes. There was not the slightest disquietude in his still, stern face. My nervousness did not affect him at all. He seemed to feel no embarrassment. “It is a matter,” he said, slowly, “to which I gave a good deal of thought at the time. I came to the conclusion that for my own sake and for the sake of another that the fact of that meeting had better not be known. There are things concerning it which I may not tell you. I cannot offer you as I would like my whole confidence. Only I can say this, my disclosure of the fact of our having met the man could have done not one iota of good. It could not possibly have suggested to any one either a clue as to the nature of the crime or to the criminal himself, and bearing in mind other things of which you are happier to remain ignorant, silence became to me almost a solemn duty. It became at any rate an absolute necessity. For the sake of others as well as for my own sake I held my peace. Association direct or indirect with such a crime would have been harmful alike to me and to the person whom he desired to visit. So I held my peace, and I require of you, Kate, that you take my pledged word as to the necessity for this silence, and that you follow my example. I desire your solemn promise that no word of that meeting shall ever pass your lips.” I did not answer. With his eyes fixed upon my face he waited. I laid my hand upon his arm. “Father, in the church, did you see his face? Did you hear what he was saying?” He did not shrink from me. He looked into my white, eager face without any sign of fear or displeasure. “Yes,” he answered, gravely. “Was it--was it--you to whom he spoke?” I cried. There was a short silence. “I cannot answer you that question, Kate,” he said. I grasped his hand feverishly. There was a red livid mark afterwards where my nails had dug into his wrist. “Father, would you have me go mad?” I moaned. “You know that man. You knew who he was! You knew what he wanted--at the Yellow House.” “It is true,” he answered. “In the church I could have touched--could have touched him, he was so near to me--there was a terrible light in his face, his eyes were flaming upon you. He was like a man who suddenly understands. He called ‘Judas,’ and he pointed--at you.” “He was mad,” my father answered, with a terrible calmness. “Every one could see that he was mad.” “Mad!” I caught at the thought. I repeated the word to myself, and forced my recollection backwards with a little shudder to those few horrible moments. After all was there any hope that this might be the interpretation? My father’s voice broke in upon my thoughts. “I do not wish to harp upon what must be a terribly painful subject to you, Kate. I only want your promise, you must take my word for everything else.”