"Father, just read that," she said.
He had heard me relate to Dulcie the story of my narrow escape in the forest near Martin d'Ablois, and I was pleased to see a smile at last come into his eyes, for since his cruel disillusionment he had looked terribly depressed.
"After all," I said as he put the paper down, "I am glad I returned to Paris, if only because my doing so has saved you from this shock."
"If I had read that, believing it to be true," he answered quietly, "the shock would probably have killed me."
"Killed you!" I exclaimed. "Oh, no, Sir Roland, a little thing like that would not have killed you; a family like yours takes a lot of killingthe records in history prove that."
He gazed at me with a strange seriousness for some moments. At last he spoke.
"Michael," he said, and there was an odd catch in his voice, "I wonder if you have the remotest conception of the strength of my attachment to you. I don't believe you have. And yet I could hardly be more attached to you than I am if you were my own son."
When, after parting from Sir Roland and Dulcie in Londonthey were to return to Holt directI arrived with Albeury at my flat in South Molton Street, I found a stack of letters awaiting me, also several telegrams. Simon, my man, was expecting meI had telegraphed from Newhavenbut almost directly he opened the door I noticed a change in his expression, and to some extent in his manner. Deferential, also curiously reserved, he had always been, but now there was a "something" in his eyes, a look which made me think he had something on his mindsomething he wished to say to me but dared not say.
I had sent Albeury into my study to smoke a cigar and drink a glass of wine while I went up to my room to have a bath. Simon was still busy with my things when I came out of the bathroom, and, while I dressed, I took the opportunity of questioning him.
"What's amiss, Simon?" I asked lightly.