e," he said, "on behalf of my son to demand the return of
those letters."

"Demand?"

"Naturally. Letters, Mrs. Feverel, of that kind are dangerous things
to leave about."

"Yes?" She smiled. "Dangerous for whom? I think you forget a little,
Mr. Trojan, in your anxiety for your son's welfare, my daughter's side
of the question. She naturally treasures what represents to her the
happiest months of her existence. You must remember that your son's
conduct--shall I call it desertion?--was a terrible blow. She loved
him, Mr. Trojan, with all her heart. Is it not right that he should
suffer a little as well?"

"I refuse to believe," he answered sharply, "that this is all a matter
of sentiment. I regret extremely that my son should have behaved in
such a cowardly and dastardly manner--it has hurt and surprised me more
than I can say--but, were that all, it were surely better to bury the
whole affair as soon as may be. I cannot believe that you are keeping
the letters with no intention of making public use of them."

"Ah," said Mrs. Feverel, "I wonder."

"Hadn't we better come to a clear understanding, Mrs. Feverel?" he
asked. "We are neither of us children, and this beating about the bush
serves no purpose whatever. If you refuse to return the letters, I
have at least the right to ask what you mean to do with them."

"Here is my daughter," she answered, "she shall speak for herself."

He turned round at the sound of the opening door, and watched her as
she came in. She was very much as he had imagined--thin and tall,
walking straight from the hips, giving a little the impression that she
was standing on her toes. Her eyes seemed amazingly dark in the
whiteness of her face. She seemed a little older than he had
expected--perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six.

She looked at him sharply as she entered and then came forward to her
mother. He could see that she was agitated--her breath came quickly,
and her hands folded and unfolded as though she were tearing something
to pieces.

"This," said Mrs. Feverel, "is my daughter, Mr. Trojan. My dear, Mr.
Henry Trojan."

She bowed and sat down opposite her mother. He thought she looked
rather pathetic as she faced him; here was no adventuress, no schemer.
He began to feel that his son had behaved brutally, outrageously.

Mrs. Feverel rose. "I will leave you, my dear. Mr. Trojan will tell
you for what he has come."

She moved slowly from the room and Harry