Miss Benham was sitting up straight in her chair with a little alert frown.

“Have you spoken of this to my uncle?” she demanded.

“Well—­no,” said Ste. Marie.  “Not the latter part of it—­that is, not my having heard of O’Hara’s disappearance.  In the first place, I learned of that only three days ago, and I have not seen Captain Stewart since—­I rather expected to find him here to-day; and, in the second place, I was quite sure that he would only laugh.  He has laughed at me two or three times for suggesting that this Irishman might know something.  Captain Stewart is—­not easy to convince, you know.”

“I know,” she said, looking away.  “He’s always very certain that he’s right.  Well, perhaps he is right.  Who knows?” She gave a little sob.  “Oh!” she cried, “shall we ever have my brother back?  Shall we ever see him again?  It is breaking my heart, Ste. Marie, and it is killing my grandfather and, I think, my mother, too!  Oh, can nothing be done?”

Ste. Marie was walking up and down the floor before her, his hands clasped behind his back.  When she had finished speaking the girl saw him halt beside one of the windows, and after a moment she saw his head go up sharply and she heard him give a sudden cry.  She thought he had seen something from the window which had wrung that exclamation from him, and she asked: 

“What is it?”

But abruptly the man turned back into the room and came across to where she sat.  It seemed to her that his face had a new look—­a very strange exaltation which she had never before seen there.  He said: 

“Listen!  I do not know if anything can be done that has not been done already, but if there is anything I shall do it, you may be sure.”

“You, Ste. Marie?” she cried, in a sharp voice. “You?”

“And why not I?” he demanded.

“Oh, my friend,” said she, “you could do nothing!  You wouldn’t know where to turn, how to set to work.  Remember that a score of men who are skilled in this kind of thing have been searching for two months.  What could you do that they haven’t done?”

“I do not know, my Queen,” said Ste. Marie, “but I shall do what I can.  Who knows?  Sometimes the fool who rushes in where angels have feared to tread succeeds where they have failed.  Oh, let me do this!” he cried out.  “Let me do it for both our sakes—­for yours and for mine!  It is for your sake most.  I swear that!  It is to set you at peace again, bring back the happiness you have lost.  But it is for my sake, too, a little.  It will be a test of me, a trial.  If I can succeed here where so many have failed, if I bring back your brother to you—­or, at least, discover what has become of him—­I shall be able to come to you with less shame for my—­unworthiness.”

He looked down upon her with eager, burning eyes, and, after a little, the girl rose to face him.  She was very white, and she stared at him silently.