"Out, I think," was my reply. "I suppose he's smoking in one of the cafes. He believed that you had gone to bed, I expect." And I threw myself lazily into a chair. I thought that her eyes filled with tears as she turned back towards the long open windows and gazed out into the Place below. And I confess that this surprised me. "You are upset!" I said softly, rising and standing at her side. "What's the matter, Miss Seymour? Tell me, confide in me--your friend." "I--I hardly know," she faltered, in a strange hoarse voice. I took her hand, and found it trembling. "But--" "But what?" I asked. Her face was turned away from me towards the night. "Well," she said, after a long pause, as though reluctant to tell me, "I fear that Dad has gone out to meet some one. When we arrived in this hotel I saw among his letters a handwriting which I recognised." "The writing of a woman, eh?" She started, turning to me quickly. "How did you know?" she gasped. "Well--I guessed," I laughed. "You guessed correctly. And I have suspicion that he has gone out to-night to meet her in secret--to--" I waited for her to conclude her sentence, but her lips closed with a snap. The colour had left her cheeks while in her eyes was a strange wild look of fear. "In confidence, Miss Seymour, I may as well tell you that I saw him half-an-hour ago walking with a lady--a person who lives near Bath under the name of Olliffe." "Then my suspicions are correct!" she cried. "That woman has regained her power over him. My poor Dad! He has fallen into her clutches. Ah, Mr Kemball, if you only knew all!" she added. "If only I dare tell you!" "Why not tell me? Surely I am your friend! You may trust me not to betray any secret," I said in deep earnestness. "They have met to-night. There is some mischief brewing. She is cruel, evil, unscrupulous." "I know--and a convicted criminal." "You know her, then?" she asked quickly, looking into my eyes. "Yes. I am acquainted with Lady Lettice Lancaster, as she was once called, and I know that she was sentenced at the Old Bailey for a series of remarkably ingenious frauds. Is she an associate of your father's?" "She was once, I believe--before her sentence," replied the girl. "She exercised over him a strange, incomprehensible fascination, as an evil woman so often can over a man. He acted at her bidding, and--well, I know but little, Mr Kemball, but, alas! what I know is, in itself, too much. I am surprised that Dad, knowing the woman's character, should dare to again associate himself with her." "She introduced me to her brother, George King. Do you know him?" "Yes. He sometimes passes as her brother and sometimes as butler or chauffeur. But he is her husband, Henry Earnshaw, sometimes known as Hoare." "And your father assisted them in their frauds, eh?" "That is my supposition. I have no actual knowledge, for it was several years ago, when I was but a girl," was her reply.