"Yes, certainly," assented Mr. Arnheim.
"Will you tell him, please—" her voice broke, and her hands clasped and unclasped—"will you tell him that I came here against my will—that I was obliged to come, and that—that I wish him to forget everything that has passed. That neither my father nor I wish to see him again. That we wish to pass out of his life as if we had never seen, never known him. Will you tell him this? You—you think it strange, unbecoming, that I should give you this message, Mr. Arnheim but—" her voice broke—"but, perhaps you have a daughter of your own, and—and thinking of her you will not refuse——."
She broke down, and covered her face with her hands.
Mr. Arnheim had a daughter, as it happened, and he did think of her.
"I don't understand, quite, Miss Lisle," he said, in a low voice; "but I understand enough to convey your message."
Leslie gave him her hand without another word, and hurried after her father.
She found him descending the stairs slowly, and he stopped as she reached him, and nodded at her.
"One moment, Leslie," he said, in nervous accents. "I forgot to ask Mr. Arnheim if his gallery is insured. Such works as I have left with him are—are priceless!"
Before she could stop him, he had turned and reascended the stairs, and re-entered the gallery. Leslie followed him. The gallery was empty, but voices were heard behind the partition, and Mr. Arnheim could be heard exclaiming in mingled indignation, pity, and amusement:
"The man is as mad as a hatter!"