"In that case, my girl, you'd better cast in your lot with me. Shall we leave England to-morrow?"
Cynthia was silent for a moment.
"Is it safer for you to go or to stay, father?"
"Well, it's about equal," said Westwood cheerfully. "They're watching the ports, I understand; so maybe I should have a difficulty in getting off. On the other hand, I'm pretty certain that the landlady here suspects me; and I thought of making tracks early to-morrow morning, Cynthia, my dear, if you have no objection to an early start."
"Anything you please, dear father."
"We're safest in London, I think," said Westwood thoughtfully; "but I think that I shall try to get out of the country as soon as I can. I am afraid it is no good to follow up my clue, Cynthia; I can't find out anything more about Mrs. Vane."
Cynthia gave a little shiver, and then clung to him helplessly; she could not speak.
"I've sometimes thought," her father continued, "that your young man—Mr. Lepel—knew more than he chose to say. I've sometimes wondered whether—knowing me to be your father and all that, Cynthia—there might not be a chance of getting him to tell all the truth, supposing that I went to him and threw myself on his—his generosity, so to speak? Do you think he'd give me up, Cynthy?"
"No, father—I don't think he would."
"It might be worth trying. A bold stroke succeeds sometimes where a timid one might fail. He's ill, you say, still, isn't he?"