“Because you had made it impossible for me to let him know in any other way.” “You could have written,” rejoined he; the familiar note of suspicion, of the keen mind on the scent for the hidden truth was strong in his voice. “I’ve no control over the mails.” “I didn’t want to put on paper--such a thing--about--my father.” Richmond rowed in silence perhaps ten minutes. Then he said, and the note of affection was fully as strong in his voice as the note of suspicion had been before: “Was that your only reason?” “I thought so,” replied she. “I realize now that I also wanted to see him--to see if there was any hope.” “You’d feel fine--wouldn’t you--if you made a fool of yourself with this man and then found out that he was already married?” The change in her expression was apparent even in that misleading light. During the long silence he saw that she was revolving his sinister suggestion. He took his time before going on in a calm, deliberate tone: “We know nothing about him--except that he is a man you, in your right senses, would never think of marrying.” “That is true,” replied she, “if you mean by right senses the sort of girl I was brought up to be.” “The sort of girl you _are_,” said he with gentle emphasis. The Daniel Richmond of rage and threat was engulfed in the wise and skillful man of affairs. She looked at him with her old-time, gay mockery. “You’ve decided to take a different tack with me, I see.” Richmond met smile with smile--and it was from him that she had got the peculiar charm of her smile. “I admit I’ve been blundering,” said he. “My eagerness to have you do what was best for you blinded my judgment. And it was very exasperating to see you rushing headlong into a folly you’d repent all your life. It’s hard for an older person to remember how inexperienced youth is, and to be patient. But I’ll try to do better.... I sent your mother to see whether you were in your room. I don’t know why I did it. I’ve got instincts that have saved me in tight places many a time. She went, came back--said you were there. But she can’t deceive me face to face. She has learned that I scent a lie like a terrier a rat. So, I went myself. When I saw you were gone it sobered me.” He said these things in a thoroughly human way, sincerely, simply--himself as he was for the daughter he loved. “I’d like to be able to--to do as you wish, father,” said she with gentleness. “But when I told you----” “Let’s not discuss that now,” he interrupted. “To-morrow, perhaps. Not now.” Another silence, with the girl rapidly softening toward her father--her always-indulgent father, and she, the recently worldly, could appreciate his point of view--why, at times, her own new point of view seemed an aberration in a dream. She said: “Have you reason to think he is--is married?” “So have you.” “He never told me--never hinted such a thing.” “Did he ever tell you he was not married?”