“She is still with me,” Arnold admitted.  “I took two rooms not very far away from here.  I did it because it was the only thing to do, but I can see now that as a permanent arrangement it will not answer.  Already, even, a shadow seems to have sprung up between us.  I am beginning to understand what it is.  I have always looked upon Ruth as being somewhat different from other women because of her infirmity.  It is dawning upon me now that, after all, the infirmity counts for little.  She is a woman, with a woman’s sensibility and all that goes with it.  It troubles her to be living alone with me.”

A shadow of perplexity passed across Sabatini’s face.  This young man was very much in earnest and spoke as though he had good reasons for these explanations, yet the reasons themselves were not obvious and the minutes were passing.

“She seemed to me,” he murmured, “to be a very charming and distinguished young lady.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” Arnold declared.  “To-day I went to Isaac that he might tell me whether there were not some relatives of hers in the world to whom she could apply for help and shelter.  I pointed out that he had left Ruth alone and penniless; that although the charge of her was nothing but a pleasure to me, it was not fitting that I should undertake it.  I insisted upon his telling me the name of at least one of her relatives, so that I might let them know of her existence and beg for a home for her.”

“It was a reasonable request,” Sabatini remarked.  “I trust that the fellow recognized the situation?”

“He had already written out Ruth’s history,” Arnold said, his voice shaking a little.  “He had written it out in pencil on a couple of sheets of foolscap.  He gave them to me to bring away with me.  I read them coming up.  I am here now to repeat their purport to you.”

Sabatini gave a little nod of interest.  His glance at the clock was apologetic.  He had thrown his overcoat once more upon his arm, and, with his white-gloved hand resting upon the back of a chair, stood listening in an attitude of courteous ease.

“I shall be glad to hear the story,” he said.  “I must admit that although I only met the young lady for those few minutes at Bourne End, I found myself most interested in her.  I feel sure that she is charming in every way.  Please go on.”

“If Isaac’s story is true,” Arnold continued slowly, “you should indeed be interested in her.”

Sabatini’s eyebrows were slightly raised.

“I scarcely understand,” he murmured.  “I—­pray go on.”

“According to his story,” Arnold said, “Ruth Lalonde is your daughter.”

Sabatini stood perfectly motionless.  The slight expression of tired attention with which he had been listening, had faded from his face.  In the late sunshine which still filled the room, there was something almost corpse-like in the pallor of his cheeks, his unnatural silence.  When he spoke, his words came slowly.