Verona had surprised him looking at her with a quick, furtive glance, instantly withdrawn. Oh no, the shabby gentleman, with the saddest eyes she had ever encountered, could not be anything to her, and strangling the thought at its birth, she turned away to claim her luggage.
Boxes and belongings, each marked "V. C.," had all been duly collected, and for this service she was thanking the guard, when, in reply to his nod of indication, she turned about and found the man from the background at her elbow.
"Pardon me," he faltered, lifting his hat, and his voice though well bred was tremulous, "is your name—Chandos?"
"Yes," she answered quickly, but the colour had left her lips, "and—and—you are my father!"
His face grew livid as he murmured "Verona," and for a second he seemed so overcome with agitation that he was unable to speak. Then he took her hand—she felt his own tremble—and brushing her cheek with his wiry moustache, murmured:
"My child, you are welcome."
As she looked up into his face she read amazement, incredulity, awe.
"Oh! am I so very different to what you expected?" she asked with a little breathless laugh.
"God knows you are!" was the startling reply. Then, pulling himself together, he added:
"I've a man here who will take charge of all your baggage," beckoning to a Peon with a large brass badge on his sash.