I do not know what prompted me to go and see Adelaide Fortress. It was a sudden impulse, and I yielded to it promptly. But I had scarcely taken half a dozen steps before I found myself face to face with Bruce Deville. He stopped short, and looked at me with surprise. “You are not afraid of rough weather, Miss Ffolliot,” he remarked, raising his cap, with, for him, unusual courtesy. “I fear many things worse,” I answered, looking down into the wood. “Are you going to see Mrs. Fortress?” “Yes, presently,” he assented. “In the meantime, I was rather thinking--I want a word with your father.” “What about?” I asked, abruptly. He looked at me intently. There was a new look upon his face which I scarcely understood. Was it pity. It was almost like it. He seemed to be wondering how much I knew--or surmised. “It is a matter of some importance,” he said, gravely. “I wish I could tell you. You look sensible, like a girl who might be told.” His words did not offend me in the least. On the contrary, I think that I was pleased. “Mr. Deville,” I said, firmly, “I agree with you. I am a girl who might be told. I only wish that my father would be open with me. There is some mystery around, some danger. I can see it all in your faces; I can feel it in the air. That man’s death”--I pointed into the wood--”is concerned in it. What does it all mean? I want to know. I want you to tell me.” “Tell me who that man was, and who killed him?” I asked, firmly. “I have a right to know. I am determined to know!” He was certainly paler underneath the dark tan of his sun and weather-burned cheeks. Yet he answered me steadily enough. “Take my advice, Miss Ffolliot, ask no questions about it, have no thought about it. Put it away from you. I speak for your happiness, which, perhaps, I am more interested in than you would believe.” Afterwards I wondered at that moment of embarrassment, and the little break in his voice. Just then the excitement of the moment made me almost oblivious of it. “You are telling me!” I cried. “I am not telling you; I am not telling you because I do not know. For God’s sake ask me no more questions! Come and see Adelaide Fortress. You were going there, were you not?” “Yes, I was going there,” I admitted. “We will go together,” he said. “She will be glad to see you, I am sure. Mind the mud; it’s horribly slippery.” We descended the footpath together. Just as we reached the gates of the Yellow House, I turned to him. He sighed. “I am not the one to whom you should appeal,” he said. “I have not the right to tell you anything; you may know very soon. In the meantime, will you tell me where your father is?” “He is at home,” I answered, “in bed. He is ill. I do not think that he will see you. He is not going to get up to-day.” Mr. Deville did not appear in the least disturbed or disappointed. On the contrary, his face cleared, and I think that he was relieved. “I am glad to hear it,” he answered. “Why?”