What are you doing here?”

Whatever ideas any of us had ever formed of his waking, I am quite sure
that none of us expected to see him start up all awake and full master
of himself. I was so surprised that I answered almost mechanically:

“Ross is my name. I have been watching by you!”  He looked surprised
for an instant, and then I could see that his habit of judging for
himself came into play. “Watching by me! How do you mean? Why watching by me?”  His eye had
now lit on his heavily bandaged wrist. He went on in a different tone;
less aggressive, more genial, as of one accepting facts:

“Are you a doctor?”  I felt myself almost smiling as I answered; the
relief from the long pressure of anxiety regarding his life was
beginning to tell:

“No, sir!”

“Then why are you here? If you are not a doctor, what are you?”  His
tone was again more dictatorial. Thought is quick; the whole train of
reasoning on which my answer must be based flooded through my brain
before the words could leave my lips. Margaret! I must think of
Margaret! This was her father, who as yet knew nothing of me; even of
my very existence. He would be naturally curious, if not anxious, to
know why I amongst men had been chosen as his daughter’s friend on the
occasion of his illness. Fathers are naturally a little jealous in
such matters as a daughter’s choice, and in the undeclared state of my
love for Margaret I must do nothing which could ultimately embarrass
her. “I am a Barrister. It is not, however, in that capacity I am here; but
simply as a friend of your daughter. It was probably her knowledge of
my being a lawyer which first determined her to ask me to come when she
thought you had been murdered. Afterwards she was good enough to
consider me to be a friend, and to allow me to remain in accordance
with your expressed wish that someone should remain to watch.”

Mr. Trelawny was manifestly a man of quick thought, and of few words. He gazed at me keenly as I spoke, and his piercing eyes seemed to read
my thought. To my relief he said no more on the subject just then,
seeming to accept my words in simple faith. There was evidently in his
own mind some cause for the acceptance deeper than my own knowledge. His eyes flashed, and there was an unconscious movement of the
mouth—it could hardly be called a twitch—which betokened
satisfaction. He was following out some train of reasoning in his own
mind. Suddenly he said:

“She thought I had been murdered! Was that last night?”

“No! four days ago.”  He seemed surprised. Whilst he had been speaking
the first time he had sat up in bed; now he made a movement as though
he would jump out. With an effort, however, he restrained himself;
leaning back on his pillows he said quietly:

“Tell me all about it! All you know! Every detail! Omit nothing! But stay; first lock the door! I want to know, before I see anyone,
exactly how things stand.”

Somehow his last words made my heart leap. “Anyone!”  He evidently
accepted me, then, as an exception. In my present state of feeling for
his daughter, this was a comforting thought. I felt exultant as I went
over to the door and softly turned the key. When I came back I found
him sitting up again. He said:

“Go on!”

Accordingly, I told him every detail, even of the slightest which I
could remember, of what had happened from the moment of my arrival at
the house. Of course I said nothing of my feeling towards Margaret,
and spoke only concerning those things already within his own
knowledge. With regard to Corbeck, I simply said that he had brought
back some lamps of which he had been in quest. Then I proceeded to
tell him fully of their loss, and of their re-discovery in the house. He listened with a self-control which, under the circumstances, was to
me little less than marvellous. It was impassiveness, for at times his
eyes would flash or blaze, and the strong fingers of his uninjured hand
would grip the sheet, pulling it into far-extending wrinkles. This was
most noticeable when I told him of the return of Corbeck, and the
finding of the lamps in the boudoir. At times he spoke, but only a few
words, and as if unconsciously in emotional comment. The mysterious
parts, those which had most puzzled us, seemed to have no special
interest for him; he seemed to know them already. The utmost concern
he showed was when I told him of Daw’s shooting. His muttered comment:
“stupid ass!” together with a quick glance across the room at the
injured cabinet, marked the measure of his disgust. As I told him of
his daughter’s harrowing anxiety for him, of her unending care and
devotion, of the tender love which she had shown, he seemed much moved. There was a sort of veiled surprise in his unconscious whisper:

“Margaret! Margaret!”

When I had finished my narration, bringing matters up to the moment
when Miss Trelawny had gone out for her walk—I thought of her as “Miss
Trelawny,” not as “Margaret” now, in the presence of her father—he
remained silent for quite a long time. It was probably two or three
minutes; but it seemed interminable. All at once he turned and said to
me briskly:

“Now tell me all about yourself!”  This was something of a floorer; I
felt myself grow red-hot. Mr. Trelawny’s eyes were upon me; they were
now calm and inquiring, but never ceasing in their soul-searching
scrutiny. There was just a suspicion of a smile on the mouth which,
though it added to my embarrassment, gave me a certain measure of
relief. I was, however, face to face with difficulty; and the habit of
my life stood me in good stead. I looked him straight in the eyes as I
spoke:

“My name, as I told you, is Ross, Malcolm Ross. I am by profession a
Barrister. I was made a Q. C. in the last year of the Queen’s reign. I have been fairly successful in my work.”  To my relief he said:

“Yes, I know. I have always heard well of you! Where and when did you
meet Margaret?”

“First at the Hay’s in Belgrave Square, ten days ago. Then at a picnic
up the river with Lady Strathconnell. We went from Windsor to Cookham. Mar—Miss Trelawny was in my boat. I scull a little, and I had my own
boat at Windsor. We had a good deal of conversation—naturally.”

“Naturally!” there was just a suspicion of something sardonic in the
tone of acquiescence; but there was no other intimation of his feeling. I began to think that as I was in the presence of a strong man, I
should show something of my own strength. My friends, and sometimes my
opponents, say that I am a strong man. In my present circumstances,
not to be absolutely truthful would be to be weak. So I stood up to
the difficulty before me; always bearing in mind, however, that my
words might affect Margaret’s happiness through her love for her
father. I went on:

“In conversation at a place and time and amid surroundings so pleasing,
and in a solitude inviting to confidence, I got a glimpse of her inner
life.