en informed myself as to how the law of
Scotland stands in regard to the estate of a man who dies leaving no
will. Lastly, Miss Markham, I am extremely hampered by the fact that Mr.
Logan has not the remotest suspicion of what I suspected--and now know--to
be the truth as to the disappearance of his cousin's body. I
successfully concealed my idea from Mr. Logan, so as to avoid giving pain
to him and you. I did my best to conceal it from you, though I never
expected to succeed. And now, if you wish to know how your father has
conferred a benefit on Mr. Logan, I must tell you, though I would rather
be silent. Mr. Logan is aware of the benefit, but will never, if you can
trust yourself, suspect his benefactor.'

'I can never, never see him again,' the girl sobbed.

'Time is flying,' said Merton, who was familiar, in works of fiction,
with the situation indicated by the girl. 'Can you trust me, or not?' he
asked, 'My single object is secrecy and your father's safety. I owe that
to my friend, to you, and even, as it happens, to your father. Can you
enable me, dressed as I am, to have an interview with him?'

'You will not hurt him? You will not give him up? You will not bring
the police on him?'

'I am acting as I do precisely for the purpose of keeping the police off
him. They have discovered nothing.'

The girl gave a sigh of relief.

'Your father's only danger would lie in my--failure to return from my
interview with him. Against _that_ I cannot safeguard him; it is fair to
tell you so. But my success in persuading him to adopt a certain course
would be equally satisfactory to Mr. Logan and to himself.'

'Mr. Logan knows nothing?'

'Absolutely nothing. I alone, and now you, know anything.'

The girl walked up and down in agony.

'Nobody will ever know if I do not tell you how to find him,' she said.

'Unhappily that is not the case. I only ask _you_, so that it may not be
necessary to take other steps, tardy, but certain, and highly
undesirable.'

'You will not go to him armed?'

'I give you my word of honour,' said Merton. 'I have risked myself
unarmed already.'

The girl paused with fixed eyes that saw nothing. Merton watched her.
Then she took her resolve.

'I do not know where he is living. I know that on Wednesdays, that is,
the day after to-morrow, he is to be found at Dr. Fogarty's, a private
asylum, a house with a garden, in Water Lane, Hammersmith.'

It was the lane in which