My first impulse was one of anger.  It seemed to me that she was taking advantage of the sympathy which Ray’s brutality during our last interview had forced from me.  I spoke to her coldly, almost angrily.

“Mrs. Smith-Lessing,” I said, “I regret that I cannot receive you here.  My position just now does not allow me to receive visitors.”

She simply raised her veil and sank into the nearest chair.  I was staggered when I saw her face.  It was positively haggard, and her eyes were burning.  She looked at me almost with horror.

“I had to come,” she said.  “I could not keep away a moment longer.  Tell me the truth, Guy Ducaine.  The truth, mind!” she repeated, fearfully.

“What do you mean?” I asked, bewildered.  “I do not understand you.”

“Tell me the truth about that man who came to see you on the seventh of January.”

I shook my head.

“I have nothing to tell you,” I said firmly.  “When I found him on the marshes he was dead.  I did not hear till afterwards that he had ever asked for me.”

“This is the truth?” she asked eagerly.

“It is the truth!” I answered.

I could see the relief shine in her face.  She was still anxious, however.

“Is it true,” she asked, “that you told a girl in the village, Blanche Moyat, to keep secret the fact that this man inquired in the village for the way to your cottage?”

“That also is true,” I admitted.  “She did not tell me until afterwards, and I saw no purpose in publishing the fact that the man had been on his way to see me.”

“You have been very foolish,” she said.  “You have quarrelled with the girl.  She is telling this against you, and there will be trouble.”

“I cannot help it,” I answered.  “I never spoke to the man.  I saw nothing of him until I found him dead.”

“Guy!” she cried, “this is an awful thing.  I am not sure, but I believe that the man was your father!”

As often as the thought had comae to me I had thrust it away.  This time, however, there was no escape.  The whole hideous scene spread itself out again before my eyes.  I saw the doubled-up body, limp and nerveless.  I felt again the thrill of horror with which one looks for the first time on death.  The mockery of the sunlight filling the air, gleaming far and wide upon the creek-riven marshes and wet sands, the singing of the birds, the slow tramp of the wagon horses.  All these things went to fill up that one terrible picture.  I looked at the woman opposite to me, and in her face was some reflection of the horror which I as surely felt.

“For your sake,” she murmured, “we must find out how he met with his death.”

“The verdict was Found drowned,” I murmured.

“People will change their opinion now,” she answered.  “Besides, you and I know that he was not drowned.”

“You are sure of that?” I asked.

“Quite,” she answered.  “He had letters with him, I know, and papers for you.  Besides, he carried always with him a number of trifles by which he could have been identified.  When he was searched at the police station his pockets were empty.  He had been robbed.  Guy, he had, as I have had, one unflinching, relentless enemy.  Tell me, was Colonel Ray in Braster at the time?”