"I am merely telling you the facts, Miss Cresswell, and you must judge them for yourself," said the doctor. "Your father robbed a bank in France and hid the money in England. Because they knew that sooner or later he would send for you the police have been watching you day and night. Your father is at Liverpool. I had a letter from him this morning. He is dying and he begs you to go to him."
She sat at the table, stunned. There was in this story a hideous probability. Her first inclination was to consult Beale, but instantly she saw that if what the doctor had said was true such a course would be fatal.
"How do I know you are speaking the truth?" she asked.
"You cannot know until you have seen your father," he said. "It is a very simple matter."
He took from his pocket an envelope and laid it before her.
"Here is the address—64 Hope Street. I advise you to commit it to memory and tear it up. After all, what possible interest could I have in your going to Liverpool, or anywhere else for the matter of that?"
"When is the next train?" she asked.
"One leaves in an hour from Euston."
She thought a moment.
"I'll go," she said decidedly.
She was walking back to her room to put on her coat when he called her back.
"There's no reason in the world why you should not write to Beale to tell him where you have gone," he said. "You can leave a note with me and I will deliver it."
She hesitated again, sat down at her desk and scribbled the few lines which Beale had found. Then she twisted round in her chair in perplexity.
"I don't understand it all," she said. "If Mr. Beale is on the track of my father, surely he will understand from this letter that I have gone to meet him."
"Let me see what you have written," said van Heerden coolly, and looked over her shoulder. "Yes, that's enough," he said.
