utmost concern he showed was when I told him of Daw’s shooting.  His muttered comment:  ’stupid ass!” together with a quick glance across the room at the injured cabinet, marked the measure of his disgust.  As I told him of his daughter’s harrowing anxiety for him, of her unending care and devotion, of the tender love which she had shown, he seemed much moved.  There was a sort of veiled surprise in his unconscious whisper: 

“Margaret!  Margaret!”

When I had finished my narration, bringing matters up to the moment when Miss Trelawny had gone out for her walk—­I thought of her as “Miss Trelawny’, not as ‘Margaret’ now, in the presence of her father—­he remained silent for quite a long time.  It was probably two or three minutes; but it seemed interminable.  All at once he turned and said to me briskly: 

“Now tell me all about yourself!” This was something of a floorer; I felt myself grow red-hot.  Mr. Trelawny’s eyes were upon me; they were now calm and inquiring, but never ceasing in their soul-searching scrutiny.  There was just a suspicion of a smile on the mouth which, though it added to my embarrassment, gave me a certain measure of relief.  I was, however, face to face with difficulty; and the habit of my life stood me in good stead.  I looked him straight in the eyes as I spoke: 

“My name, as I told you, is Ross, Malcolm Ross.  I am by profession a Barrister.  I was made a Q. C. in the last year of the Queen’s reign.  I have been fairly successful in my work.”  To my relief he said: 

“Yes, I know.  I have always heard well of you!  Where and when did you meet Margaret?”

“First at the Hay’s in Belgrave Square, ten days ago.  Then at a picnic up the river with Lady Strathconnell.  We went from Windsor to Cookham.  Mar—­Miss Trelawny was in my boat.  I scull a little, and I had my own boat at Windsor.  We had a good deal of conversation—­naturally.”

“Naturally!” there was just a suspicion of something sardonic in the tone of acquiescence; but there was no other intimation of his feeling.  I began to think that as I was in the presence of a strong man, I should show something of my own strength.  My friends, and sometimes my opponents, say that I am a strong man.  In my present circumstances, not to be absolutely truthful would be to be weak.  So I stood up to the difficulty before me; always bearing in mind, however, that my words might affect Margaret’s happiness through her love for her father.  I went on: 

“In conversation at a place and time and amid surroundings so pleasing, and in a solitude inviting to confidence, I got a glimpse of her inner life.  Such a glimpse as a man of my years and experience may get from a young girl!” The father’s face grew graver as I went on; but he said nothing.  I was committed now to a definite line of speech, and went on with such mastery of my mind as I could exercise.  The occasion might be fraught with serious consequences to me too.