one where you are going?"

"Yes, father--unless----"

"Well? Unless what?"

"Father, Mr. Lepel is very ill. They say that he has brain-fever. If he
were dying, you would let me wait to say good-bye to him?"

She had put her hand through his arm, and was leaning against his
shoulder. Her father looked at her sideways, with a rough pity mingled
with admiration.

"Were you going to him now, Cynthia?"

"Yes, father."

"I've interrupted you. It's hard on you to have a father like me
although he is an innocent man."

"I honor my father and I love him," was Cynthia's swift response. "My
greatest grief is that he cannot be near me always."

There was a silence; the cab had quitted the smoother roads and entered
on a course of rattling stones. It was difficult to speak so as to be
heard; but Westwood raised his voice.

"Cynthia!"

"Yes, father."

"It seems to me that you need watching over as much as ever you did when
you was a little baby-girl. I don't see why you should be abandoned in
your need any more than you're willing to abandon me. If I can be any
sort of help to you, I won't try to leave London at all. I can hide away
somewhere no doubt as other folks have done. There are places at the
East-end where no one would notice me. Shall I stay, Cynthia?"

"Dear father! No, you will be no help to me--no comfort--if you are in
danger!"

He put his arm round her and pressed her close to him; but he did not
speak again until they reached the station. The streets were noisy, and
conversation was well-nigh impossible. When they got out, Cynthia paid
the cabman and dismissed him. Her father walked forward, glancing round
him suspiciously as he went. It was a quarter to eleven o'clock. Cynthia
joined him in a dark corner of the great entrance-hall.

"I will take your ticket," she said, "where will you go?"

Westwood hesitated for a moment.

"It's not safe, Cynthia. I will not go at all. I should only be arrested
at the other end; I am sure of it. I'll tell you what we will do. You
may go and take a ticket for Liverpool and bring it to me--in full view
of that policeman there, who is eyeing us so suspiciously. Then you must
say 'good-bye' and walk straight out of the station. I will mingle with
the crowd on the platform; but I will not go by train--I'll slip
eastward and lose myself in Whitechapel. I've made up my mind--I don't
start for Liverpool to-day."

"Perhaps you are right," said Cynthia, in a faltering