"No; it is my father who brings it home from the City." "Then he never will again!" For some seconds their eyes were locked. "Mr. Ringrose, what do you mean? Your tone is so strange. Has anything happened?" "Not to your father. He and I have quarrelled--that's all." "When?" "This morning." "And you have come to tell me about that!" "I didn't mean to do so. I came to speak to one of the only two friends I have in the world besides my mother. I came to speak to you while--while you would speak to me. And now I've gone and spoilt it all!" "Of course you haven't," said the girl, with her kind smile. "Sit down and tell me all about it. I think all the more of you for saying the worst thing first." Yet she looked alarmed, and her tone was only less agitated than his. "It is not the worst," groaned Harry Ringrose, "and I can't sit down to say the sort of thing I've come to say. Oh, but I was a coward to come to you at all! It was because I had no one else to turn to; and you have always been my friend; but it was a cowardly thing to do! I will go away again without saying a word." She had sunk down upon her low chair, and was leaning forward so that he could not see her face, but only the red gold of her hair in the ruddy firelight. "No; now you must go on," she said, without raising her face. "It is about your father--and mine." "I expected that." "I asked him some plain questions which he could not--or would not--answer. In desperation--in distraction--I have come to put those questions to you!" "It is useless," was the low reply. "I cannot answer them--either." "Wait until you hear what they are. They are very simple. What was there between Scrafton and your father and mine? What had your father and Scrafton to do with my father's flight? That's all I ask--that's all I want to know." "I cannot tell you what you want to know." "Cannot," he said gently, "or dare not?" "Cannot!" she cried, and was on her feet with the word, her burning face flung back and her grey eyes flashing indignation. Harry bowed. "That is enough for me," he said, "and I apologise for those last words--but you would understand them if you had heard all that passed this morning." "I do not want to know what passed. My father's affairs are not necessarily mine. I cannot tell you what you want to know because--I do not know myself." "You have made that clear to me," said Harry, staring out of the window and through the fog. He could see the gate with the ridiculous name still painted upon it. It stood wide open as he had left it in his haste. He thought of the first time he had seen it and entered by it; he thought of the second time, which had also been the last; and all at once he thought of a question asked upon the other side of the gate, and never answered, nor repeated, nor yet remembered, from that day to this. He turned to his companion. "You once told me that you knew my father?" "Yes, I knew him." "You have seen him here in this house?"