"My dear fellow," I laughed. "You must really be mistaken in this. He is entirely devoted to her. He has told me so." "Ah, yes! He is for ever making protestations of parental love, I know, but his face betrays the fact that his words do not come from his heart. He hates her?" "Why should he? She has, I believe, been his companion for years, ever since her childhood." "I know. You are Shaw's friend, and, of course, pooh-pooh any suspicion there may be against him. Asta is devoted to his interests, and hence blind to the bitter hatred which he is so cleverly concealing." "But what causes you to suspect this?" I asked, looking at him very seriously, as he stood leaning upon the old lichen-covered wall, his dark thoughtful face turned towards the setting sun. "Well, I have more than suspicion, Kemball. I have proof." "Of what?" "Of what I allege," he cried, in a low, confidential tone. "This man Shaw is not the calm, generous, easy-going man he affects to be." I was silent. What could he know? Surely Asta had not betrayed her foster-father! Of that I felt confident. "But you say you have proof. What is the nature of the proof?" "It is undeniable. This man, under whose guardianship Asta has remained all these years, has changed towards her. There's evil in his heart." "Then you fear that--well, that something may happen, eh?--that he might treat her unkindly. Surely he is not cruel to her!" "Cruel? Oh dear, no, not in the least. He is most indulgent and charming always. That is why she believes in him." "But you say that you have actual proof that he is not the generous man he pretends to be." "Yes, I have. My suspicions were aroused about two months ago, for behind his calm exterior he seemed ever nervous and anxious about something, as though he were concealing some great secret." I held my breath. What could he know? "Well?" I asked, with an effort to restrain my own anxiety. "I watched, and my suspicions were more than ever confirmed. His frequent and mysterious absences had long ago puzzled me, more especially when Asta refused to give me any reason for them. Sometimes for months at a time she has been left in this big place alone, with only the servants. Why did he disappear and reappear so suddenly? Then two months ago--I tell you this, of course, in the strictest confidence--I was going home on my motor-cycle from Corby station one dark wet night, when I overtook a poor miserable-looking man, ill-clad, and drenched to the skin. I wished him good-night, and in his response I was startled to recognise the voice of Harvey Shaw. So presently I dismounted to repair my machine, so that he might again approach. But he held back, yet near enough for me to recognise his features as I turned my acetylene lamp back along the road. Next day I made casual inquiry of Asta as to his whereabouts, but she told me he was in Paris on business, and he certainly did not return here until a fortnight afterwards."