have you
and him?"

"Me and him, Daisy?"

"Yes," she answered, smiling boldly. "He's asked me to marry him--just
to show he didn't mind--and I think I will, father. We three against the
world! What need we care? Father, we'll beat Sir Robert!" and she seized
his two hands and laughed.

In vain Medland tried to tell her what he had come to say. Mighty as his
relief and joy were, he still felt a burden lay on him. She would not
hear.

"Don't you see I'm happy?" she cried. "It can't be your duty to make me
unhappy. Jack doesn't mind, I don't mind!" Her voice sank a little and
she added, "It can't hurt mother now. Oh, don't be unhappy about it,
dear--don't, don't!"

They were standing now, and his arm was about her. Looking up at him,
she went on,

"They shan't beat us! They shan't say they beat us. We three, father!"

He stooped and kissed her. There is love that lies beyond the realm of
giving or taking, of harm or good, of wrong, or even of forgiveness.
With all his faults, this love he had won from his daughter, and it
stood him in stead that night. He drew himself up to his height, and the
air of despondency fell from him. The girl's brave love braced him to
meet the world again.

"No, by Jove, we're not beat yet, Daisy!" he said, and she kissed him
again and laughed softly as she made him sit, and herself sat upon his
knee.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE TRUTH TOO LATE.

By four o'clock the next afternoon the Club had gathered ample materials
for fresh gossip. The formalities attendant on the change of government,
the composition of the new Cabinet, the prospects of the election--these
alone would have supplied many hours, and besides them, indeed
supplanting them temporarily by virtue of an intenser interest, there
was the account of the inquest on Benyon's body. Medland had gone to it,
almost direct from his final interview with the Governor, and Kilshaw
had been there, fresh from a conference with Perry. The inquiry had
ended, as was foreseen directly Ned Evans' evidence was forthcoming, in
a verdict of murder against Gaspard; but the interest lay in the course
of the investigation, not in its issue. Mr. Duncombe, a famous comedian,
who was then on tour in New Lindsey and had been made an honorary member
of the Club, smacked his lips over the dramatic moment when the
ex-Premier, calmly and in a clear voice, had identified the person in
the photograph, declared the deceased man to have been Benyon, and v