My father had evidently come in tired out; he leaned against the wall for support. He was out of breath, too, and pale. “What does she want with me?” he asked, sharply. “She came to ask if we knew of any family of the name of Maltabar. Philip Maltabar, it seems, is the name of a man who has been her brother’s enemy. She thinks that this thing must have been his doing. She cannot think of any one else with whom he has ever been on bad terms. I have told her that there is no one of that name in these parts.” He cleared his throat. He was very hoarse and ghastly pale. “Quite right, Kate,” he said. “There is no one of that name around here. What more does she want? What does she want of me?” “I told her that I knew of no one, but she came to see you in the first place. She does not seem quite satisfied. She wants to ask you herself.” He drew back a step. “No! no! I cannot see her. I am tired--ill. I have walked too far. Tell her from me that there is no one of that name living in these parts. I am absolutely sure of it. She can take it for granted from me.” “Hadn’t you better see her just for one moment, as she has waited for so long?” I said. “She will be better satisfied.” He ground his heel down into the floor. “No! I will not! I have had too much worry and trouble in connection with this affair already. My nerves are all unstrung. I cannot discuss it again with any one. Please let her understand that from me as kindly as possible, but firmly. I am going to my study. Don’t come to see me again until she has gone.” He crossed the hall and entered his own room. I heard the key turn in the lock after him. It was useless to say anything more. I went back to my visitor. I entered noiselessly, as I was wearing house shoes, and was surprised to find her with the contents of my card-plate spread out before her. She flushed up to the temples when she saw me standing on the threshold, yet she was not particularly apologetic. “I am very rude,” she said, brusquely. “I had no right, of course, to take such a liberty, but I thought--it might be barely possible--that you had forgotten the name, that some one might have called when you were not at home, or that, perhaps, your sister might have met them.” “Oh, pray satisfy yourself,” I said, icily. “You are quite welcome to look them through.” She put the card-plate down. “I have looked at all of them,” she said. “There is no name anything like it there. Is your father coming in?” “He is not very well,” I told her, “and is quite tired out. He has walked a long way this afternoon. He wishes you to excuse him, and to say that he is quite sure that there is no one of that name, rich or poor, living anywhere in this neighborhood.” She seemed by no means satisfied. “But shall I not be able to see him at all, then?” she exclaimed. “I had hoped that as he was the clergyman here, and was one of those who were with my brother when he died, that he would be certain to help me.” I shook my head.