“How could he risk it--how could he risk it--with that sentence against him?” she said; then after a while she came back to her seat, and looked at Geoff piteously with a heartrending look in her eyes. She was past crying, which would have relieved her. “That is not all,” she said in a low voice. “Alas, alas! if all was well, and he might come home when he pleased, it would matter less. I know nothing about him, Lord Stanton. I don’t know my brother any longer, nor where he is, nor how he is living now.” “But his children have just come to you!” “Yes, out of the unknown. No one knows anything about him; and suddenly they came out of the darkness, as I tell you. That is where he is: out in the world, in the dark, in the unknown----” “There are ways of penetrating the unknown,” said Geoff, cheerfully. “There are advertisements; everybody sees the _Times_ nowadays. It goes all over the world. Wherever there is an Englishman he sees it somehow. Let us advertise.” “He would not see it.” “Then a detective--let us send some one----” “Oh no, no, no,--not that. I could not bear that. We must let him alone till he comes of his own accord. Let well alone,” said Mary, in her panic. She scarcely knew what she said. “Well! do you call it well, Miss Musgrave, that your brother should be away from his home, from everything he loves--his country lost to him, his position, all his friends?” “He has not been separated from everything he loves; he had wife and children; does a man care for anything else? What was this old house to him, and--us--in comparison? His wife is dead--that was God’s doing; and his children have come home--that is his own choice. I say, let well alone, Lord Stanton; when he wishes it he will--come--back; but not to those he loves,” Mary said in a low tone. Geoff could not fathom her meaning, it was beyond him. The accusation under which John Musgrave lay was bad enough. It was cowardly of him (he thought) to fly and leave this stigma, uncontested, upon his own name; but that there should be any further mystery did not seem possible to the young man. Perhaps there was something wrong with the family, some incipient insanity, monomania, eccentricity. He could not understand it. But at least he had shown his goodwill, if no more. “I must not dictate to you, Miss Musgrave,” he said; “you know best,” and he rose to go away, but stood hesitating, reluctant to consent to the failure of his generous mission. “If I can be of any use, at any time,” he added, blushing and faltering; “not that I can do much: but if you should--change your mind--if you should--think----” She took his hand once more in both of hers. “I shall always think that you have the kindest and most generous heart: and are a friend--a true friend--to John, and everybody in trouble.” “I hope so,” said the youth, fervently; “but that is nothing;--to you, Miss Musgrave, if I can ever be of any use.” “I will ask you, if it ever can be,” she said. “I will not forget.”