"Because you _know_."

"What?"

"Everything. You know he's in love with you, and you're in love with him."

"I'm not!"

Her voice quivered with passion; there was nothing for it but a bold stroke. And one risk more or less hardly mattered.

"Can you keep a secret, Sylvia?"

"It depends."

"No. Absolutely?"

"All right."

I lowered my voice to a whisper.

"There _was_ a woman in his rooms last Wednesday, and she is the woman I am engaged to marry."

Her look of scorn was caused less by concern for my morals than by pity for my simplicity in thinking she would believe such a story.

"I don't believe it."

"You must. It's your last chance. If you let him go now, you'll lose him for ever, and I'm not going to let you blight your life and his, if I can stop it. You must make up your mind now. Do you believe me?"

Her expression of scorn had vanished and given place to one of painful perplexity.

"I'm not...."

"Do you believe me, Sylvia?"

She hesitated in an agony of indecision, until the moment was lost.

The water had arrived, and Arthur was dismissing me from the Presence.

"You're not going to arrest us, then?" I said.

"I reserve perfect freedom of action," he answered, in the Front Bench manner.

"Quite right," I said. "I only wish you'd reserved the inquisition till this boy was in a better state to receive it. Would it interfere with your liberty of action if I asked you to say a word of thanks either to Aintree, myself, or both? I believe it is usual when a man loses his daughter and has her restored to him."

A few minutes more would have tried my temper. Arthur sat down again at his table, opened a drawer, and took out a cheque-book.

"According to your story it was Aintree who was chiefly instrumental in making the discovery?"

"That was the lie we agreed on," I said.

Arthur wrote a cheque for two thousand pounds, and handed it to the Seraph with the words--

"That, I think, clears all obligations between us."

"Except that of manners," I exclaimed. "The House of Commons----"

But he had rung the bell, and was tidying his papers into neat, superfluous bundles.

Philip had the courage to shake me by the hand and say he hoped to see me again soon. I am not sufficiently cynical to say it was prompted by the reflection that Gladys was my niece, because he was every whit as cordial to the Seraph.

I shook hands with Sylvia, and found her watching the Seraph fold and pocket the two thousand pound cheque.

"He's taking it!" she said.

"Your father should have been ashamed to make the offer. It serves him right if his offer's accepted. Don't blame the Seraph. If Nigel and your father proceed on the lines they've gone on this afternoon, one or both of us will have to cut the country. The Seraph's not made of money; he'll want all he can lay hands on. Now then, Sylvia, it's two lives you're playing with."

She had not yet made up her mind, and indecision chilled the warmth of her eyes and the smile on her lips. I watched the effort, and wondered if it would suffice for the Seraph. Then question and answer told their tale.

"When shall we see you again?" I heard her ask as I walked to the door.

"I can hardly say," came the low reply. "I'm leaving England shortly.

I shall go across India, and spend some time in Japan--and then visit the Islands of the South Seas. It's a thing I've always wanted to do.

After that? I don't know...."

CHAPTER XIV

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY

"The instant he entered the room it was plain that all was lost....

"'I cannot find it,' said he, 'and I must have it. Where is it?... Where is my bench?... Time presses; and I must finish those shoes.'

"They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.

"'Come, come!' said he, in a whimpering miserable way: 'let me get to work. Give me my work.'

"...Carton was the first to speak:

"'The last chance is gone: it was not much....'"

CHARLES DICKENS: "A Tale of Two Cities."

As I helped the Seraph out of the house and into a taxi, I was trying to string together a few words of sympathy and encouragement. Then I looked at his face, and decided to save my breath. Physically and mentally he was too hard hit to profit by any consolation I could offer. As a clumsy symbol of good intention I held out my hand, and had it gripped and retained till we reached Adelphi Terrace.

"Never mind me," he said, in a slow, sing-song voice, hesitating like a man speaking an unfamiliar language. "It's you and Joyce we've got to consider."