ly house which had so agitated him; for of
course she had noticed agitation in him. And he had intended to tell
her or, rather, her father. He had been rehearsing to himself the
description of the man he had met there in order to ask Sherrill about
him; but now Alan knew that he was not going to refer the matter even
to Sherrill just yet.

Sherrill had believed that Benjamin Corvet's disappearance was from
circumstances too personal and intimate to be made a subject of public
inquiry; and what Alan had encountered in Corvet's house had confirmed
that belief. Sherrill further had said that Benjamin Corvet, if he had
wished Sherrill to know those circumstances, would have told them to
him; but Corvet had not done that; instead, he had sent for Alan, his
son. He had given his son his confidence.

Sherrill had admitted that he was withholding from Alan, for the time
being, something that he knew about Benjamin Corvet; it was nothing, he
had said, which would help Alan to learn about his father, or what had
become of him; but perhaps Sherrill, not knowing these other things,
could not speak accurately as to that. Alan determined to ask Sherrill
what he had been withholding before he told him all of what had
happened in Corvet's house. There was one other circumstance which
Sherrill had mentioned but not explained; it occurred to Alan now.

"Miss Sherrill--" he checked himself.

"What is it?"

"This afternoon your father said that you believed that Mr. Corvet's
disappearance was in some way connected with you; he said that he did
not think that was so; but do you want to tell me why you thought it?"

"Yes; I will tell you." She colored quickly. "One of the last things
Mr. Corvet did--in fact, the last thing we know of his doing before he
sent for you--was to come to me and warn me against one of my friends."

"Warn you, Miss Sherrill? How? I mean, warn you against what?"

"Against thinking too much of him." She turned away.

Alan saw in the rear of the hall the man who had been waiting with the
suitcase. It was after midnight now and, for far more than the
intended half hour, Alan had left his father's house unwatched, to be
entered by the front door whenever the man, who had entered it before,
returned with his key.

"I think I'll come to see your father in the morning," Alan said, when
Constance looked back to him.

"You won't borrow Simons?" she asked again.

"Thank you, no."

"But you'll come o