LITMIR.BIZ

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when she did she slipped on a dressing-gown and went to her father's room. The night nurse answered her unspoken question by informing her that no change had taken place; that the sick man was just as he had been. Nora moved to his bed. There he lay, on his back, exactly as before. She had the feeling strong upon her that he had heard her coming; that, in some strange fashion, he was glad to see her; though, when she stood beside him, he looked up at her with such agony in his eyes that the sight of it brought tears to hers. Again there came to her that odd conviction which had possessed her when she woke out of sleep, that there was something which he strenuously wished to say to her; that he was torn by the desire to relieve himself of a burden which was on his mind.

      On the Saturday his condition remained the same; he was conscious but motionless, helpless, and, above all, speechless. So convinced was she that if he could only speak, if only some means could be found by which he could convey his thoughts to her, that he would be more at his ease, that she appealed to Dr. Banyard.

      "Can nothing be done to restore to him the power of speech, if only for a few minutes?"

      "I believe that I am doing all that medicine can do; you heard Sir Masterman say that he could do no more."

      "Can you think of no way in which he can convey to us his meaning? I believe that he has something which he wishes very much to say-something on his mind; and that if he could only say it-get it off his mind-he would at least be happier."

      The doctor eyed her shrewdly.

      "Have you any notion what it is?"

      "Not the slightest. If I had I might prompt him, and get at it that way. But my father has never been very communicative with me; I know nothing of his private affairs-absolutely nothing; I only know that he is my father."

      "Have you any other relations?"

      "So far as I know only an aunt, his sister. I have never seen her-I don't think they have been on good terms; I don't know her address; I believe she lives abroad."

      "Had your mother no relations?"

      "I cannot tell you; I know nothing of my mother-she died when I was born. I have been wondering if what he wishes to say is that, if-if the worst comes, he would like to be buried in her grave. I don't know where her grave is; he has never spoken of her to me."

      The doctor continued to eye her intently. He had a clever face, with a whimsical mouth, which seemed to be a little on one side; his eyes were deep-set, and were surrounded by a thick thatch of iron-grey hair.

      "How old are you?"

      "I shall be twenty in June."

      "That's a ripe age."

      She sighed.

      "I feel as if I were a hundred."

      "You don't look it; however, that's by the way. At such a time as this, Miss Lindsay, you ought not to be alone in this great house, with all the weight upon your shoulders."

      "I'm not alone; Elaine is with me."

      "Yes; and she-is even older than you."

      "Elaine is twenty-four."

      "I don't doubt it. If you're a hundred I should say that she is a thousand."

      "What do you mean?"

      "Nothing." But she felt that he had meant something; she wondered what. He went on. "What I intended to remark was that I think you ought to have some one with you who would give proper attention to your interests. As it is, you are practically at the mercy of a lot of servants and-and others. Hasn't your father an old friend, in whom you yourself have confidence-a business friend? By the way, who is his man of business-his lawyer?"

      She shook her head.

      "If father has any friends I don't know them. He has never been very sociable with anybody about here; I can't say what old acquaintances he may have had elsewhere. As you are probably aware, he was frequently away."

      "Did you never go with him?"

      "Never-never once. I have never been with my father anywhere out of this immediate neighbourhood, except when I first went to school, when he escorted me."

      "But you always knew where he was?"

      "Sometimes; not always."

      "Had he an address in town?"

      "Only his club, so far as I know."

      "Which was his club?"

      "The Carlton."

      "That sounds good enough. Did you use to write to him there?"

      "Not often; he only liked me to write to him when I had something of importance to say. He cared neither for reading nor for writing letters. He once told me that there were a lot of women who seemed to have nothing better to do than waste their own and other people's time by scribbling a lot of nonsense, which they cut up into lengths, sent through the post, and called letters. He hoped I should never become one of them. I remembered what he said, and never troubled him with one of the 'lengths' called letters if I could help it."

      Both of them smiled; only the doctor's was a whimsical smile, and hers was hardly suggestive of mirth.

      "You haven't told me who his lawyer is."

      "The only lawyer I ever heard him mention was Mr. Nash."

      "Nash? He only employed him in little local jobs; in no sense was he his man of business; I've reasons for knowing that his opinion of Herbert Nash's legal ability is not an unduly high one."

      As before, Nora shook her head.

      "He is the only lawyer I ever heard papa mention."

      "But, my dear Miss Lindsay, your father is a man of affairs-of wealth; he lives here at the rate of I don't know how many thousand pounds a year, and has never owed a man a penny; you must know something of his affairs."

      "All I know is that he has always given me all the money I wanted, and not seldom more than I wanted; I have never had to ask him for any; but beyond that I know nothing."

      When Dr. Banyard got home he said to his wife-

      "Helen, if I had to define a male criminal lunatic, I am inclined to think that I should say it was a man who brought up his women-folk in the lap of luxury without giving them the faintest inkling as to where the wherewithal to pay for that luxury came from."

      His wife said mischievously-

      "It is at least something for women-folk, as you so gracefully describe the salt of the earth, to be brought up in the lap of luxury; please remember that, sir. And pray what prompts this last illustration of the wisdom of the modern Solomon?"

      "That man Lindsay; you know how he's been a mystery to all the country-side; the hints which have been dropped; the guesses which have been made; the clues which the curious have followed, ending in nothing; the positive libels which have been uttered. It turns out that he's as much a mystery to his own daughter as he is to anybody else; I've just had it from her own lips. The man lies dying, leaving her in complete ignorance of everything she ought to know-at the mercy, not impossibly, of those who do know. Just as God is calling him home he wants to tell her; I can see it in his eyes, and so can she; but he is dumb. Unless a miracle is worked he'll die silent, longing to tell her what he ought to have told her years ago."

      CHAPTER II

      THE OPEN WINDOW

      On the Sunday Donald Lindsay died, in the afternoon, about half-past four; probably about the time, Dr. Banyard said, when he had first been stricken. Although, apparently, conscious to the last, he died speechless, without being able to do anything to relieve himself of the burden which lay upon his mind; a burden which, it seemed not improbable, had been the first cause of the fate which had so suddenly overtaken him. To Nora the blow was, of course, a bad one; when she realized that her father was dead it seemed as if all the light had gone out of the world for her. And yet, in the nature of things, it was impossible that she should feel for him the affection which sometimes associates the parent with the child. He himself had scoffed at love; sentiment, he had repeatedly told her, was the thing in life which was to be most avoided; he had illustrated his meaning in his own practice.

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