"But what does it mean?" asked Lesbia, lifting a tear-stained face.
"God knows," muttered Charvington moodily, "I have been mistaken in your father, my dear."
"But--but you don't blame me?"
"No," he declared emphatically, "a thousand times no. My dear, I love you as if you were my own child, and I shall never, never believe any harm of you in any way. I can keep my wife's tongue silent, but I can do no more. You must return to Marlow, until such time as I can arrange further about your marriage with George Walker."
"Oh," Lesbia wailed and stretched her arms, "I cannot marry him now. Who would marry the daughter of a thief? Father was one of the thieves who robbed Mr. Tait's strong-room."
"At Tait's request remember," interpolated Charvington quickly.
Lesbia brushed away the speech. "Oh, what does it matter even if they are all thieves. But George must have known the dreadful truth and so he will not renew our engagement. I did not understand him before; I do now."
"There! there!" Charvington patted her shoulder again, "don't worry. All will come right, I am sure, and in a way which you do not expect."
Lesbia looked up with sudden hope. "You know of something."
"Yes," said the man gloomily. "I know of something. Don't ask me any further questions just now, but go back to Marlow. The motorcar is already at the door with your box on it. As all our other guests have left the house, your departure will cause no surprise."