"He did not say much. He referred me to you. But what became of him? Like most young fellows, I suppose he went out exploring the city by night, and lost his way."
"No, there you wrong him, madam, for as soon as he heard Wyckliffe was at Port Arthur he came back to me, and then hired a steamer to take him and his friend down there. I saw them off last night, and, see, here is a wire I got this morning. It reads:
'Mr. Goodchild, Hobart.
He has left here. Destination unknown. Suspicions well grounded.—Winter.'"
"I shall feel obliged if you can give me a little explanation, for Mr. Wyckliffe was staying here for several days, and I took a great fancy to him. You connect your daughter's ill-health with him; and finally you produce a telegram saying 'suspicions well-grounded.' I must say I cannot understand it. Help me to do so," said the lady, shifting about in her chair, in the fidgetty, uncomfortable way women have when they are puzzled.
"Well, the fact of the matter is that this fellow Wyckliffe is an English adventurer, and a scoundrel of the blackest dye. He passes as a gentleman, and his intentions from what I can learn are never of a very honourable description. Mr. Winter and his friend Morris are on his tracks for an affair something similar, but as they will both be here to-night, I would rather leave them to explain. I wish now to see my daughter to try and bring her to reason."
"And God grant you may," said Mrs. Eastwood, fervently. "You will find her in the Blue Room on the first floor."
Goody left the office, and hurrying up the stairs paused before a door painted a sky-blue colour. He knocked and a melancholy voice bade him enter. Opening the door, the sight that met his eyes almost unmanned him. Seated, or rather reclining as if she had flung herself there, in an arm-chair was his daughter, clad in a loose dressing-gown, carelessly thrown on. She presented a most forlorn appearance. All her bright, healthy colour had disappeared from her cheeks and her whole appearance was that of one suffering from severe mental worry.
"Is that you, father? I thought it was Mrs. Eastwood. Why have you followed me?" she said, in a low, sad voice.
"My darling girl. I could not stay away any longer; it was killing me," said the old man, in a despairing voice, as he embraced her fondly. "May, darling, tell your old dad your troubles, and let him help you to bear them."