immediately.

"Mr. Hastings!"

"Yes, Miss Sloane?"

He turned and faced her.

"I must talk to you, alone. Won't you come in here?"

She preceded him into the parlour across the hall. When he put his hand
on the electric switch, she objected, saying she preferred to be without
the lights. He obeyed her. The glow from the hall was strong enough to
show him the play of her features--which was what he wanted.

They sat facing each other, directly under the chandelier in the middle
of the spacious room. He thought she had chosen that place to avoid all
danger of being overheard in any direction. He saw, too, that she was
hesitant, half-regretting having brought him there. He read her doubts,
saw how pain and anxiety mingled in her wide-open grey eyes.

"Yes, I know," he said with a smile that was reassuring; "I don't look
like a particularly helpful old party, do I?"

He liked her more and more. In presence of mind, he reflected, she
surpassed the men of the household. In spite of the agitation that still
kept her hands trembling and gave her that odd look of fighting
desperately to hold herself together, she had formed a plan which she
was on the point of disclosing to him.

Her courage impressed him tremendously. And, divining what her request
would be, he made up his mind to help her.

"It's not that," she said, her lips twisting to the pretence of a smile.
"I know your reputation--how brilliant you are. I was thinking you might
not understand what I wanted to say."

"Try me," he encouraged. "I'm not that old!"

It occurred to him that she referred to Berne Webster and herself,
fearing, perhaps, his lack of sympathy for a love affair.

"It's this," she began a rush of words, putting away all reluctance: "I
think I realize more keenly than father how disagreeable this awful
thing is going to be--the publicity, the newspapers, the questions, the
photographs. I know, too, that Mr. Webster's in an unpleasant situation.
I heard what he said to you in the library, every word of it.--But I
don't have to think about him so much as about my father. He's a very
sick man, Mr. Hastings. The shock of this, the resultant shocks lasting
through days and weeks, may be fatal for him.

"Besides," she explained, attaining greater composure, "he is so
nervous, so impatient of discomfort and irritating things, that he may
bring upon himself the enmity of the authorities, the investigators. He
may easily provoke them so that t