"By violence?" asked Beecot, thinking of Deborah's talk.

"I can't say. But every day after six he goes to church and prays all
alone. Deborah told me, as often she has seen him leave the church. Then
he is afraid of every stranger who enters the shop. I don't understand
it," cried the girl, passionately. "I don't like it. I wish you would
marry me and take me away, Paul; but, oh, how selfish I am!"

"My own, I wish I could. But the money--"

"Oh, never mind the money. I must get away from that house. If it was
not for Deborah I would be still more afraid. I often think my father is
mad. But there," Sylvia rose and shook out her skirts, "I have no right
to talk so, and only do so to you, that you may know what I feel. I'll
speak to my father myself and say we are engaged. If he forbids our
marriage I shall run away with you, Paul," said poor Sylvia, the tears
in her eyes. "I am a bad girl to talk in this way. After all, he is my
father."

Beecot had an ardent desire to take her in his arms and kiss away those
tears, but the publicity of the meeting-place denied him the power to
console her in that efficacious fashion. All he could do was to assure
her of his love, and then they walked out of the gardens towards the
Strand. "I'll speak to your father myself," said Paul; "we must end this
necessary silence. After all, I am a gentleman, and I see no reason why
your father should object."

"I know you are everything that is good and true," said Sylvia, drying
her eyes. "If you were not Debby would not have let me become engaged to
you," she finished childishly.

"Debby made inquiries about me," said Paul, laughing, to cheer her.
"Yes! she sent Bart to Wargrove and found out all about me and my
family and my respected father. She wished to be certain that I was a
proper lover for her darling."

"I am your darling now," whispered Sylvia, squeezing his arm, "and you
are the most charming lover in the world."

Paul was so enchanted with this speech that he would have defied public
opinion by embracing her there and then, but Sylvia walked away rapidly
down Gwynne Street and shook her head with a pursed-up mouth when Paul
took a few steps after her. Recognizing that it would be wise not to
follow her to the shop lest the suspicious old man should be looking
out, Beecot went on his homeward way.

When he drew near his Bloomsbury garret he met Grexon Hay, who was
sauntering along swinging his cane. "I was just lookin