“Go on, please,” she murmured.

“My friend went on to say that during the last few years Mr. Fentolin has once again become an object of some suspicion to the head of our Secret Service Department.  For a long time they have known that he was employing agents abroad, and that he was showing the liveliest interest in underground politics.  They believed that it was a mere hobby, born of his useless condition, a taste ministered to, without doubt, by the occupation of his earlier life.  Once or twice lately they have had reason to change their minds.  You know, I dare say, in what a terribly disturbed state European affairs are just now.  Well, my friend had an idea that Mr. Fentolin was showing an extraordinary amount of interest in a certain conference which we understand is to take place at The Hague.  He begged me to come down, and to watch your uncle while I was down here, and report to him anything that seemed to me noteworthy.  Since then I have had a message from him concerning the American whom you entertained—­Mr. John P. Dunster.  It appears that he was the bearer of very important dispatches for the Continent.”

“But he has gone,” she said quickly.  “Nothing happened to him, after all.  He went away without a word of complaint.  We all saw him.”

“That is quite true,” Hamel admitted.  “Mr. Dunster has certainly gone.  It is rather a coincidence, however, that he should have taken his departure just as the enquiries concerning his whereabouts had reached such a stage that it had become quite impossible to keep him concealed any longer.”

She turned a little in her place and looked at him steadfastly.

“Mr. Hamel,” she said, “tell me—­what of your mission?  You have had an opportunity of studying my uncle.  You have even lived under his roof.  Tell me what you think.”

His face was troubled.

“Miss Fentolin,” he said, “I will tell you frankly that up to now I have not succeeded in solving the problem of your uncle’s character.  To me personally he has been most courteous.  He lives apparently a studious and an unselfish life.  I have heard him even spoken of as a philanthropist.  And yet you three—­you, your mother, and your brother, who are nearest to him, who live in his house and under his protection, have the air of passing your days in mortal fear of him.”

“Mr. Hamel,” she exclaimed nervously, “you don’t believe that!  He is always very kind.”

“Apparently,” Hamel observed drily.  “And yet you must remember that you, too, are afraid of him.  I need not remind you of our conversations, but there the truth is.  You praise his virtues and his charities, you pity him, and yet you go about with a load of fear, and—­forgive me—­of secret terror in your heart, you and Gerald, too.  As for your mother—­”

“Don’t!” she interrupted suddenly.  “Why do you bring me here to talk like this?  You cannot alter things.  Nothing can be altered.”