Pamela did not immediately answer. That she followed his question he realised by the deepening of the flush in her cheeks. She lay back in her chair, very still and quiet, the long lashes drooping above her eyes, veiling the trouble in their depths. Dare sat forward now, regarding her steadily. "What was that?" she asked presently; and he knew that she put the question merely to gain time. She understood perfectly to what he referred. "You promised me that if ever you were in a position in which a friend might prove helpful, you would extend to me a friend's privilege," he said earnestly. "Have you kept that promise?" "I have not been in that position," Pamela replied without looking at him. Dare laid a hand on her dress. "Pamela," he said quietly, "I think I deserve that you should be honest with me." She turned very white. How he had learnt of the trouble which she believed was known only to herself, she had no means of judging, but that he was in possession of certain information his manner assured her. She wondered how he had come by his knowledge,--how much he knew. Suddenly she experienced again the longing to confide in him, the intense desire for his sympathy and counsel which had moved her to the point of writing to him on the day when she had discovered the further proof of Arnott's treachery. Since that day until now she had not thought of appealing to him. "I did write," she confessed in a low voice, "over a month ago; but I tore the letter up. Then something happened, and I felt I couldn't write." He looked at her for a moment or so in silence. The flush had come back to her cheeks, and the blue of her eyes as they met his darkened almost, to black. The pathos, and the wistfulness of them wrung his heart. "I'm glad you thought of writing," he said; "that was something towards it anyway. I want you to go a little further and confide in me fully." "I've thought of doing that,--I've wanted to," she said. "But--" She glanced at her sleeping child, and from him back into the strong, sympathetic face of this man who sought to serve her, whose help she so sorely needed. "If I only knew what to do!" she cried. "I'm telling you what to do," he answered. "It seems to me perfectly simple. Whatever the difficulty is it can't make it easier hugging it to yourself; and if it lies within the scope of human power to help you, you know I'll do anything for you." He leaned towards her suddenly and grasped her hand. "Pamela, don't you trust me?" "Yes," she said, troubled and hesitating... "Yes. But I can't talk to you here." "No," he said. "But later..." "When Maggie comes for the child," she answered in a whisper, "we will go indoors... I--will trust you..." CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.