“For the last time, I trust.”
“Yes. But what can we do? How can I warn Dad?” she asked in deep anxiety.
“Ah, Miss Seymour,” I said, after a brief silence, “I fear that you think a little too much of your foster-father, and too little of your own self.”
“Why?” she asked quickly, with some resentment. Again I hesitated. We had wandered upon the pier, but it was as yet early, and few people, save the early-morning exercise men, were about.
“Let us sit here a moment,” I suggested at last. “It is pleasant in the sunshine. I have something to show you.”
Without a word she seated herself where I suggested, on a seat near the empty band-stand, and then I drew from my pocket the letter which Guy Nicholson had written to me on the night of his tragic death and handed it to her.
I watched her sweet face, so pale and anxious. In an instant she recognised the writing of the hand now dead, and read it through eagerly from end to end.
I explained how it had come so tardily into my possession, whereupon she said—
“It is true. He disliked Dad for some inexplicable reason.”
“Apparently he had become aware of some extraordinary truth. It was that truth which he had intended to explain to me, but, poor fellow, he was prevented from doing so by his sudden death.”