Cynthia had, as Sabina suspected, gone straight to her father when she left Russell Square. Some time before he had let her know that he was still in England, and had sent her his address, warning her however not to visit him unless she was obliged to do so. On this occasion she had almost forgotten his warning; she went to him as a child often goes to its parents, more for comfort than for absolute protection; and he was astonished, as well as alarmed, when she flung herself into his arms and wept on his shoulder, calling him now and then by all sorts of endearing names, but refusing to explain to him the reason of her visit or of her grief.

"It's not that man that you're fond of, is it, my dearie? He hasn't played you false, has he?"

"No, father, no—not in the way you mean."

"He ain't worse—dying or anything?"

"Oh, no!"—with a sudden constriction of the heart, which might have told her how dear Hubert was to her still.

"Then you've quarrelled?"

"I suppose we have," said Cynthia, with an unnatural hysterical laugh. "Oh, yes—we have quarrelled, and we shall never see each other any more!"

"In that case, my girl, you'd better cast in your lot with me. Shall we leave England to-morrow?"

Cynthia was silent for a moment.

"Is it safer for you to go or to stay, father?"

"Well, it's about equal," said Westwood cheerfully. "They're watching the ports, I understand; so maybe I should have a difficulty in getting off. On the other hand, I'm pretty certain that the landlady here suspects me; and I thought of making tracks early to-morrow morning, Cynthia, my dear, if you have no objection to an early start."

"Anything you please, dear father."

"We're safest in London, I think," said Westwood thoughtfully; "but I think that I shall try to get out of the country as soon as I can. I am afraid it is no good to follow up my clue, Cynthia; I can't find out anything more about Mrs. Vane."

Cynthia gave a little shiver, and then clung to him helplessly; she could not speak.

"I've sometimes thought," her father continued, "that your young man—Mr. Lepel—knew more than he chose to say. I've sometimes wondered whether—knowing me to be your father and all that, Cynthia—there might not be a chance of getting him to tell all the truth, supposing that I went to him and threw myself on his—his generosity, so to speak? Do you think he'd give me up, Cynthy?"

"No, father—I don't think he would."

"It might be worth trying. A bold stroke succeeds sometimes where a timid one might fail. He's ill, you say, still, isn't he?"

Cynthia thought of the fall that she had heard as she left the room.

"Yes," she answered almost inaudibly; "he has been very ill, and he is not strong yet."

"And you've left him all the same?" said her father, regarding her curiously. "There must have been something serious—eh, my lass?"

"Oh, father, don't ask me!"

"Don't you care for him now then, my girl?" said Westwood, with more tenderness than he usually showed.

"I don't know—I don't know! I think I—I hate him; but I cannot be sure."

"It's his fault then? He's done something bad?"

"Very bad!" cried poor Cynthia, hiding her face.

"And you can't forgive him?"

"Not—not till he has made amends!" said the girl, with a passionate sob.

Her father sat looking at her with a troubled face.

"If your mother hadn't forgiven me many and many a time, Cynthia," he said at last, "I should have gone to destruction long before she died. But as long as ever she lived she kept me straight."

"She was your wife," said Cynthia, in a choked voice. "I am not Hubert's wife—and I never shall be now. Never mind, father; we were right to separate, and I am glad that we have done it. Now will you tell me where you are thinking of going, or if you have made any plans?"

Westwood shook his head.

"I've got no plans, my dear—except to slip out at the door, early to-morrow morning. Where I go next I am sure I do not know."

Cynthia resolutely banished the thought of her own affairs, and set herself to consider possibilities. Her mind reverted again and again to the Jenkins family. Their connection with Hubert made it seem a little dangerous to have anything to do with them at present; and yet Cynthia was inclined to trust Tom Jenkins very far. He was thoroughly honest and true, and he was devoted to her service; but, after some reflection, she abandoned this idea. If she and her father were to be together, she had better seek some place where her own face was unknown and her father's history forgotten. After a little consideration, she remembered some people whom she had heard of in the days of her engagement at the Frivolity. They let lodgings in an obscure street in Clerkenwell; and, as they were quiet inoffensive folk, Cynthia thought that she and her father might be as safe with them as elsewhere. She did not urge her father to leave England at present; for she had a vague feeling that she ought not to cut him off from the chance—a feeble chance, but still a chance—of being cleared by Hubert Lepel's confession. She had not much hope; and yet it seemed to her possible that Hubert might choose to tell the truth at last, and that she could but hope that, having confessed to her, he might also confess to the world at large, and show that Westwood was an innocent and deeply injured man.

She stayed the night, sleeping on a little sofa in the sitting-room; but early the next day they went out together, making one of the early morning "flittings" to which Westwood was accustomed; and Cynthia took her father to his new lodgings in Clerkenwell.

For some days she did not go out again. Excitement and the shock of Hubert's confession had for once disorganised her splendid health. She felt strangely weak and ill, and lay in her bed without eating or speaking, her face turned to the wall, her head throbbing, her hands and feet deathly cold. Westwood watched her anxiously and wanted her to have a doctor; but Cynthia refused all medical advice. She was only worn out with nursing, she said, and needed a long rest; she would be better soon.

One day when she had got up, but had not yet ventured out of doors, her father came into her room with a bunch of black grapes which he had brought for her to eat.

"How good you are, father!" Cynthia said gratefully.

She took one to please him but she did not seem inclined to eat. She was sitting in a wooden chair by the window, looking pale and listless. There were dark shadows under her eyes and a sad expression about her mouth; one would scarcely have known her again for the brilliant beauty who had carried all before her when she sang in London drawing-rooms not three months earlier.

Her father looked at her with sympathetic attention.

"You want cockering up," he said, "and coddling and waiting on. When once we get out of this darned old country, you shall see something different, my girl! I've got money enough to do the thing in style when we reach the States. You shall have all you want there, and no mistake!"

"Thank you, father," said the girl, with a listless smile.

"I've had a long walk to-day," Westwood said, after a pause, "and I've been into what you would call danger, my girl. Ah, that rouses you up a bit, doesn't it? I've been to Russell Square."

"To Russell Square." Cynthia's face turned crimson at once. "Oh, father, did you see—did you hear——"

"Did I hear of Mr. Lepel? That's what I went for, my beauty! In spite of your quarrel, I thought you'd maybe like to hear how he was getting on. I talked to the gardener, a bit; Mr. Lepel's been ill again, you know."

"A relapse?" said Cynthia quickly.

"Yes, a relapse. They've had a hospital-nurse for him, I hear. He's not raving now, they say, but very weak and stupid-like."

"Have none of his friends come to nurse him?" said Cynthia."I don't know. The gardener wouldn't hear that, maybe. He said there'd been a death in the family—some child or other. Would that be General Vane's little boy, do you suppose?"

"It might be."

"Then Miss Vane will be the heiress. She and Mr. Lepel——" He hesitated for a moment, and Cynthia looked up.

"Miss Vane is going to marry Mr. Evandale father. She is not engaged to Mr. Lepel now."

"Oh! Not engaged to Mr. Lepel now? Then what the dickens," said Westwood very deliberately, "did you and Mr. Lepel quarrel about, I should like to know?"

"I can't tell you, father. Nothing to do with that, however."

"I expect it was all a woman's freak. I had made up my mind for you to marry that fellow, Cynthia. I rather liked the looks of him. I'd have given you a thumping dowry and settled him out in America, if you'd liked. It would have been better than the life of a newspaper-man in London any day."

Cynthia did not answer. Her face wore a look of settled misery which made Westwood uncomfortable. He went on doggedly.

"When he gets better, I think I shall go and see him about this. I've no mind to see my girl break her heart before my eyes. You know you're fond of him. Why make such a mystery of it? Marry him, and make him sorry for his misdeeds afterwards. That's my advice."

Cynthia's hands began to tremble in her lap. She said nothing however, and Westwood did not pursue the subject. But a few days later she asked him a question which showed what was weighing on her mind.

"Father, what do you think about forgiveness? We ought to forgive those that have injured us, I suppose? They always said so at St. Elizabeth's."

"Up to a certain point, I think, my girl. It's no good forgiving them that are not sorry for what they've done. It would go to my heart not to punish a rascal that robbed me and laughed in my face afterwards, you know. But, if I've reason to think that he's repented and tried to make amends, why, then, I think a man's a fool who doesn't say, 'All right, old fellow—try again and good luck to you!'""Make amends! Ah, that is the test!" said Cynthia, in a very low voice.

"Well, it is and it isn't," said her father sturdily. "Making amends is a very difficult matter sometimes. The best way sometimes is to put all that's been bad behind you, and start again fresh without meddling with the old affairs. Of course it's pretty hard to tell whether a man's repentant or whether he is not."

He knew very well that she was thinking of Hubert Lepel, and was therefore all the more cautious and all the more gentle in what he said. For he had gone over to Hubert's side in the absence of any precise knowledge as to what the quarrel had been about. "A woman's sure to be in the wrong!" he said to himself—hence his advice.

"But, if one is sure—quite sure—that a man repents," said Cynthia falteringly, "or, at least, that he is sorry, and if the wrong is not so much to oneself, but to somebody else that is dear to one, then——"

"If you care enough to worry about the man, forgive him, and have done with it!" said her father. "Now look here, Cynthy—let's have no beating about the bush! I think I know pretty well what's happening. Mr. Lepel knows something about that murder business—I am pretty sure of that. You think, rightly or wrongly, that he could have cleared me if he had tried. Well, maybe so—maybe not; I can't tell. But, my dear, I don't want you to bother your head about me. If you're fond of the fellow, you needn't let my affairs stand in your way. Why, as a matter of fact, I'm better off now than I should ever have been in England; so what seemed to be a misfortune has turned out to my advantage. I'm content enough. Mr. Lepel has held his tongue, you say"—though Cynthia had not uttered a single word; "but I reckon it was for his sister's sake. And, though she's a bad lot, I don't see how a man could tell of his sister, Cynthy—I don't indeed. So you go back to Mr. Lepel and tell him not to bother himself. I can take care of myself now, and all this rubbish about clearing my character may as well be knocked on the head. As soon as I'm out of the country, I don't care a rap! You tell that to Mr. Lepel, my beauty, and make it up with him. I wouldn't for the world that you should be unhappy because I've been unfortunate."

This was a long speech for Westwood; and Cynthia came and put her hands on his shoulders and laid her cheek to his long before he had finished.

"Dear father," she said, "you are very good and very generous!"

"Confess now, Cynthy—you love him, don't you?" said Westwood, with unusual gentleness.

"I am afraid I do, father," she said, crying as she spoke.

"Then be faithful to him, my lass, like your mother was to me."

They said no more. But Cynthia brooded over her father's words for the next three days and nights. Then she came to him one day with her hat and cloak on, as if she were going for a walk.

"Father," she began abruptly, "do you allow me to go to Hubert—to see him, I mean?"

"Of course I do, my dear."

"Although you believe what you said—and what I did not say—that he could have cleared you if he had liked?"

"Yes, my dear—if you love him."

"Yes, I love him," said Cynthia sadly.

"I'm going to sail next week; he'll never be troubled by me again," said her father. "You can either stay with him, Cynthia, or he can come out with us. Out there we can all forget what's over and done. You go to him and tell him so at once."

He kissed her on the forehead with unaccustomed solemnity. Cynthia flung her arms round his neck and gave him a warm embrace. The eyes of both father and daughter were wet as they said good-bye.

Cynthia knew nothing of Mrs. Vane's visit to London. She expected to meet a trained nurse only, and the Jenkins—Sabina Meldreth and the doctor perhaps beside, but no one else. She set forth at an hour which would enable her to reach the house when Hubert was likely to be up—at least, if he were able to leave his bed. She did not know what she was going to say to him—what line she was about to take. She only knew that she could not bear to be away from him any longer, and that love and forgiveness were the two thoughts uppermost in her mind.

She was not aware that her father had considered it unfit for her to go alone to Russell Square. He had followed her all the way from Clerkenwell, and was in the square immediately behind herself. When she mounted the steps and rang the bell, he crossed the road and walked along the pavement by the gardens in the middle of the square. Here he fancied that he should be unobserved. He saw the door opened; he saw Cynthia making her inquiries of the servant. Then she went in, and the door was shut.

He waited for some time. Presently a man, whom he knew to be the faithful Jenkins, appeared on the steps of the house and looked about him. Then he crossed the road and advanced to Westwood, who was leaning against the railings.

"Mr. Reuben Dare, I think?" he said, touching his hair respectfully. Westwood stared at the sound of that name. "Miss West and Mr. Lepel wants to know if you will kindly come up-stairs. They have a word or two to say, and they hope that you will not fail to come."

Westwood smiled to himself—a rather peculiar smile.

"All right," he said; "if they want me to come, I'll come. But I think they had both better have let me stay away."

Nevertheless he followed Jenkins to the house.