It seemed too that she had not overestimated the element of the curious which it contained, for before she had gone very far with it her father who had been, when she begun the narrative, stooping down every now and again to smell the roses as he moved from bed to bed, was standing still, quite as engrossed in hearing the story from her as she had been in hearing it from the Australian. When she came to the end, he put his hands in his pockets, and drew a long breath, gazing, not at her face, but in an abstracted way, over her head into the distance of the shrubbery. There was a silence of considerable duration before he said,--and once again he seemed to draw a long breath: “What did you say is the name of the man--the Australian--I was paying so little attention to you, I regret to say, when you began your story, I have actually forgotten it?” “Pierce Winwood,” replied Amber. “I mentioned the name to you a few days ago when I told you that I had met him. You said you did not recollect hearing it before, but I now see that you recall it.” “You are wrong, my dear; I do not recall anyone of that name,” said her father. And then he turned away from her, looking up to the topmost windows of the house, which were glowing one by one, as the servants switched on the lights in turn, preparing the rooms for the night. Amber was a little struck at his way of taking the story. It appeared to her that he must have heard it all before, for he had not given any exclamation of surprise while she dwelt on some of the details that seemed to her rather marvellous. His attitude on hearing it to its close, was, she thought, that of a person whose distant memories have been awakened. “What did he say was the name of the man--the man to whom the thing happened?” he asked, after another and a longer pause. “He was unable to give me any name--either the name of the man who was falsely imprisoned or the one who allowed himself to be saved by the falsehood,” replied Amber. “Ah... I wonder if he is anxious to find out either of those names.” “He said nothing about that. He only told me the story because we had been talking about the romance of the colonies,” said Amber. “Ah...” “But now that I come to think of the way he dwelt on some of the details in the story he must take a more than ordinary amount of interest in the people of that little drama--the story would make a very good play, I think.” “That is just what I have been thinking--a very good play. You really fancy that he took a personal interest in some of the details?” “Well, it did not seem so to me at the moment, I must confess; but as I said just now, the more I think of it the more I feel... but perhaps I exaggerate... I can only tell you what is my impression now.”