"Wait until you hear what they are. They are very simple. What was there between Scrafton and your father and mine? What had your father and Scrafton to do with my father's flight? That's all I ask—that's all I want to know."
"I cannot tell you what you want to know."
"Cannot," he said gently, "or dare not?"
"Cannot!" she cried, and was on her feet with the word, her burning face flung back and her grey eyes flashing indignation.
Harry bowed.
"That is enough for me," he said, "and I apologise for those last words—but you would understand them if you had heard all that passed this morning."
"I do not want to know what passed. My father's affairs are not necessarily mine. I cannot tell you what you want to know because—I do not know myself."
"You have made that clear to me," said Harry, staring out of the window and through the fog. He could see the gate with the ridiculous name still painted upon it. It stood wide open as he had left it in his haste. He thought of the first time he had seen it and entered by it; he thought of the second time, which had also been the last; and all at once he thought of a question asked upon the other side of the gate, and never answered, nor repeated, nor yet remembered, from that day to this.
He turned to his companion.
"You once told me that you knew my father?"