“Well,” she said, after a long pause, as though reluctant to tell me, “I fear that Dad has gone out to meet some one. When we arrived in this hotel I saw among his letters a handwriting which I recognised.”
“The writing of a woman, eh?”
She started, turning to me quickly.
“How did you know?” she gasped.
“Well—I guessed,” I laughed.
“You guessed correctly. And I have suspicion that he has gone out to-night to meet her in secret—to—”
I waited for her to conclude her sentence, but her lips closed with a snap. The colour had left her cheeks while in her eyes was a strange wild look of fear.
“In confidence, Miss Seymour, I may as well tell you that I saw him half-an-hour ago walking with a lady—a person who lives near Bath under the name of Olliffe.”
“Then my suspicions are correct!” she cried. “That woman has regained her power over him. My poor Dad! He has fallen into her clutches. Ah, Mr Kemball, if you only knew all!” she added. “If only I dare tell you!”
“Why not tell me? Surely I am your friend! You may trust me not to betray any secret,” I said in deep earnestness.