It was quite one minute before the old lady answered this question. She reflected deeply, with her eyes searching his handsome face, then shook her head sadly. "No! We were not so confidential as that. We met several times again, but as I refused to marry him, your father went away to Paris. I never saw him again, but the memory of his eyes remained, and those same eyes you now use to look at me suggested my old romance."
"They would not have done so but for the magic word Rhaiadr," said Spruce in brisk tones. "Well, Hench, you see that there is a mystery."
"There is not," declared the young man sharply and much vexed. "Your mystery resolves itself into what Madame here calls her romance. My father asked her to marry him and she refused. Very wisely, I think," he added, as if to himself--"she would never have been happy."
Madame overheard him, shrugged her shoulders, and rose, looking more shapeless in figure and more untidy in dress than ever. "In any case, I have never been happy," she said sadly, "so it does not matter. But I am now inclined to consider your proposal to pay attentions to Zara."
"He is not yet rich, remember," put in Spruce, grinning.
"Mind your own business," said Hench vehemently.
"No"--Madame's tone was peculiar--"and perhaps he never may be rich. But if Zara likes you, I am not sure but what I will not allow you to marry her. No, I have not yet quite made up my mind. Give me time to think"--she moved ponderously towards the door. "Owain of Rhaiadr! Ah, if you were only able to call yourself that. Well, who knows," and with a mysterious nod she disappeared.
"Queer thing, coming across an old flame of your father's in Queer Street," said the Nut affably. "What do you think?"
"I think," said Hench in anything but an amiable tone, "that you had better mind your own damned business."
Spruce was by no means offended. "As you will, although you should be sensible enough to use my brains to help you with your family mystery."