She crossed the room in silence, and bending over the cabinet touched the spring. The picture smiled out upon me. It was the likeness of a young man--gay, supercilious, debonair--yet I knew it--knew it at once. The forehead and the mouth, even the pose of the head was unchanged. It was my father. “He called himself once, then, Philip Maltabar?” I cried, hoarsely. She nodded. “It was long ago.” “It is for him the girl is searching. It is he who was her brother’s enemy; it is----” She held my hand and looked around her fearfully. “Be careful,” she said, softly. “The girl may have returned. It is not a thing to be even whispered about. Be silent, and keep your own counsel.” Then I covered my face with my hands, and my throat was choked with hard, dry sobs. The thing which I had most feared had come to pass. The scene in the church rose up again before my eyes. I saw the fierce gestures of a dying man, the froth on his lips, as he struggled with the words of denunciation, the partial utterance of which had killed him. With a little shiver I recognized how narrow had been my father’s escape. For I could no longer have any real doubts. It was my father who had killed Stephen Berdenstein. CHAPTER XVII A CONFERENCE OR TWO In the wood half-way between the Yellow House and home I met Bruce Deville. I should have hurried on, but it was impossible to pass him. He had a way of standing which took up the whole path. “Miss Ffolliot,” he said, “may I walk home with you?” “It is only a few steps,” I answered. “Please don’t trouble.” “It will be a pleasure,” he said, sturdily. I looked at him; such a faint, acrimonious smile. “Haven’t you been almost polite enough for one day?” I asked. He seemed to be genuinely surprised at my ill-humor. “You mean, I suppose, because I walked home with that girl,” he answered. “I did so on your account only. I wanted to know what she was going to do.” “I did not require any explanation,” I remarked. He seemed perplexed. Men are such idiots. In the end he ignored my speech. “I wanted to see you,” he began, thoughtfully. “I have been to call at the Vicarage; your sister would not let me see your father.” “I am not surprised at that,” I answered; “you do not realize how ill he is.” “Have you had a doctor to see him?” he asked. “No; he will not let me send for one,” I answered. “Yet I know he is in need of medical advice. It is very hard to know what to do for the best.” “If I may advise you,” he said, slowly, “I should strongly recommend your doing exactly as your father wishes. He knows best what is well for him. Only tell him this from me. Tell him that change will be his best medicine. I heard yesterday that the Bishop wished him to go to Eastminster at once. Let him get an invalid carriage and go there to-morrow. It will be better for him and safer.” I stopped short, and laid my hand upon his wrist. I tried to make him look at me; but he kept his face turned away.