James Harding Miller was seated alone in a long cane deck-chair on the terrace that ran the whole length of the beautiful old house. He had drawn it out through the French windows of the smoking-room, and was idly drawing out a cigar in the semi-darkness.
“Father!” cried Lucie, rushing forward as we approached, “do you recognise our visitor?”
Instantly he jumped up, exclaiming:—
“Why Ella—Ella after all this time! Minton told me that you had called and had gone in search of Lucie. And how is your father?”
“He’s very well, thanks,” was my love’s reply. “I left him at Swanage, and drove out to see if Lucie was at home.”
“And Mr Leaf,” exclaimed Lucie. “I think you have met him before, father?”
“Certainly,” Miller said pleasantly, extending his hand to me. “You are staying here, in Studland?”
“For a couple of days or so,” I answered.
“You mentioned that you had met my daughter,” he remarked, and then after welcoming Ella and pressing her to remain there the night, he ordered Minton to bring us chairs, and pushed the cigars across to me.
To Miller, Ella gave the same account of herself as she had given to us. The identity of the person who had spread the false report concerning her death—a report which had passed from mouth to mouth among all her friends—was a mystery, and Miller was just as surprised and just as pleased as ourselves at her reappearance.