“Ah, Ste. Marie!” she said, in her well-remembered voice—­and again he wondered that the voice should be so high-pitched and so without color or feeling.  “How glad I am,” she said, “that you are safely out of it all!  How you have suffered for us, Ste. Marie!  You look white and ill.  Sit down, please!  Don’t stand!”

She drew him to a comfortable chair, and he sat down in it obediently.  He could not think of anything to say, though he was not, as a rule, tongue-tied; but the girl did not seem to expect any answer, for she went on at once with a rather odd air of haste: 

“Arthur is here with us, safe and sound.  Richard Hartley brought him back from that dreadful place, and he has talked everything over with my grandfather, and it’s all right.  They both understand now, and there’ll be no more trouble.  We have had to be careful, very careful, and we have had to—­well, to rearrange the facts a little so as to leave—­my uncle—­to leave Captain Stewart’s name out of it.  It would not do to shock my grandfather by telling him the truth.  Perhaps later; I don’t know.  That will have to be thought of.  For the present we have left my uncle out of it, and put the blame entirely upon this other man.  I forget his name.”

“The blame cannot rest there,” said Ste. Marie, sharply.  “It is not deserved, and I shall not allow it to be left so.  Captain Stewart lied to O’Hara throughout.  You cannot leave the blame with an innocent man.”

“Still,” she said, “such a man!”

Ste. Marie looked at her, frowning, and the girl turned her eyes away.  She may have had the grace to be a little ashamed.

“Think of the difficulty we were in!” she urged.  “Captain Stewart is my grandfather’s own son.  We cannot tell him now, in his weak state, that his own son is—­what he is.”

There was reason if not justice in that, and Ste. Marie was forced to admit it.  He said: 

“Ah, well, for the present, then.  That can be arranged later.  The main point is that I’ve found your brother for you.  I’ve brought him back.”

Miss Benham looked up at him and away again, and she drew a quick breath.  He saw her hands move restlessly in her lap, and he was aware that for some odd reason she was very ill at ease.  At last she said: 

“Ah, but—­but have you, dear Ste. Marie?  Have you?”

After a brief silence she stole another swift glance at the man, and he was staring in open and frank bewilderment.  She rushed into rapid speech.

“Ah,” she cried, “don’t misunderstand me!  Don’t think that I’m brutal or ungrateful for all you’ve—­you’ve suffered in trying to help us!  Don’t think that!  I can—­we can never be grateful enough—­never!  But stop and think!  Yes, I know this all sounds hideous, but it’s so terribly important.  I shouldn’t dream of saying a word of it if it weren’t so important, if so much didn’t depend upon it.  But stop and think!  Was it, dear Ste. Marie, was it, after all, you?  Was it you who brought Arthur to us?”