“What is it, Betty?” he inquired, his usual interest in her accentuated by her manner.

She laid her other hand on his and he clasped both with his own.

“When the Worthingtons sail for England next month,” she explained, “I want to go with them.  Mrs. Worthington is very kind and will be good enough to take care of me until I reach London.”

Mr. Vanderpoel moved slightly in his chair.  Then their eyes met comprehendingly.  He saw what hers held.

“From there you are going to Stornham Court!” he exclaimed.

“To see Rosy,” she answered, leaning a little forward.  “To see her.

“You believe that what has happened has not been her fault?” he said.  There was a look in her face which warmed his blood.

“I have always been sure that Nigel Anstruthers arranged it.”

“Do you think he has been unkind to her?”

“I am going to see,” she answered.

“Betty,” he said, “tell me all about it.”

He knew that this was no suddenly-formed plan, and he knew it would be well worth while to hear the details of its growth.  It was so interestingly like her to have remained silent through the process of thinking a thing out, evolving her final idea without having disturbed him by bringing to him any chaotic uncertainties.

“It’s a sort of confession,” she answered.  “Father, I have been thinking about it for years.  I said nothing because for so long I knew I was only a child, and a child’s judgment might be worth so little.  But through all those years I was learning things and gathering evidence.  When I was at school, first in one country and then another, I used to tell myself that I was growing up and preparing myself to do a particular thing—­to go to rescue Rosy.”

“I used to guess you thought of her in a way of your own,” Vanderpoel said, “but I did not guess you were thinking that much.  You were always a solid, loyal little thing, and there was business capacity in your keeping your scheme to yourself.  Let us look the matter in the face.  Suppose she does not need rescuing.  Suppose, after all, she is a comfortable, fine lady and adores her husband.  What then?”

“If I should find that to be true, I will behave myself very well—­as if we had expected nothing else.  I will make her a short visit and come away.  Lady Cecilia Orme, whom I knew in Florence, has asked me to stay with her in London.  I will go to her.  She is a charming woman.  But I must first see Rosy—­see her.”

Mr. Vanderpoel thought the matter over during a few moments of silence.

“You do not wish your mother to go with you?” he said presently.

“I believe it will be better that she should not,” she answered.  “If there are difficulties or disappointments she would be too unhappy.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, “and she could not control her feelings.  She would give the whole thing away, poor girl.”