ather struck with the discrepancy between what I
told you and what I told the reporters, but I feel you ought to know
that I had a very special reason for protecting this man."

"Of that I have no doubt," she said coldly.

"Miss Cresswell, you must be patient and kind to me," he said earnestly.
"I have devoted a great deal of time and I have run very considerable
dangers in order to save you."

"To save me?" she repeated in surprise.

"Miss Cresswell," he asked, "did you ever know your father?"

She shook her head, so impressed by the gravity of his tone that she did
not cut the conversation short as she had intended.

"No," she said, "I was a girl when he died. I know nothing of him. Even
his own people who brought him up never spoke of him."

"Are you sure he is dead?" he asked.

"Sure? I have never doubted it. Why do you ask me? Is he alive?"

He nodded.

"What I am going to tell you will be rather painful," he said: "your
father was a notorious swindler." He paused, but she did not protest.

In her life she had heard many hints which did not redound to her
father's credit, and she had purposely refrained from pursuing her
inquiries.

"Some time ago your father escaped from Cayenne. He is, you will be
surprised to know, a French subject, and the police have been searching
for him for twelve months, including our friend Mr. Beale."

"It isn't true," she flamed. "How dare you suggest----?"

"I am merely telling you the facts, Miss Cresswell, and you must judge
them for yourself," said the doctor. "Your father robbed a bank in
France and hid the money in England. Because they knew that sooner or
later he would send for you the police have been watching you day and
night. Your father is at Liverpool. I had a letter from him this
morning. He is dying and he begs you to go to him."

She sat at the table, stunned. There was in this story a hideous
probability. Her first inclination was to consult Beale, but instantly
she saw that if what the doctor had said was true such a course would be
fatal.

"How do I know you are speaking the truth?" she asked.

"You cannot know until you have seen your father," he said. "It is a
very simple matter."

He took from his pocket an envelope and laid it before her.

"Here is the address--64 Hope Street. I advise you to commit it to
memory and tear it up. After all, what possible interest could I have in
your going to Liverpool, or anywhere else for the matter of that