She held it out to him. For a moment he looked away from his own work and took the opportunity to light a fresh cigarette. Then he nodded, hastily scrawled some dimensions on the margin of the little drawing and settled down again to work. “It'll do,” he said. “Give it to Smith. Come back at eight to look at your proofs after I've done with them. Good interview! Good sketch! You'll do, Miss Wendermott.” She went out laughing softly. This was quite the longest conversation she had ever had with the chief. She made her way to the side of the first disengaged typist, and sitting in an easy-chair gave down her copy, here and there adding a little but leaving it mainly in the rough. She knew whose hand, with a few vigorous touches would bring the whole thing into the form which the readers of the “Hour”, delighted in, and she was quite content to have it so. The work was interesting and more than an hour had passed before she rose and put on her gloves. “I am coming back at eight,” she said, “but the proofs are to go in to Mr. Darrel! Nothing come in for me, I suppose?” The girl shook her head, so Ernestine walked out into the street. Then she remembered Cecil Davenant and his strange manner--the story which he was even now waiting to tell her. She looked at her watch and after a moment's hesitation called a hansom. 81, Culpole Street, she told him. “This is a little extravagant,” she said to herself as the man wheeled his horse round, “but to-day I think that I have earned it.” CHAPTER XVII “Ernestine,” he said gravely, “I am going to speak to you about your father!” She looked up at him in swift surprise. “Is it necessary?” “I think so,” he answered. “You won't like what I'm going to tell you! You'll think you've been badly treated. So you have! I pledged my word, in a weak hour, with the others. To-day I'm going to break it. I think it best.” “Well?” “You've been deceived! You were told always that your father had died in prison. He didn't.” “What!” Her sharp cry rang out strangely into the little room. Already he could see signs of the coming storm, and the task which lay before him seemed more hateful than ever. “Listen,” he said. “I must tell you some things which you know in order to explain others which you do not know. Your father was a younger son born of extravagant parents, virtually penniless and without the least capacity for earning money. I don't blame him--who could? I couldn't earn money myself. If I hadn't got it I daresay that I should go to the bad as he did.” The girl's lips tightened, and she drew a little breath through her teeth. Davenant hesitated.