"Very good, sir."
The moment they emerged into the Square Gracie ran to Dick and took his hand. An infinite pity filled his heart as he looked down at her pallid, mournful face.
"It's all right now, mother," she said, hoarsely. "Dick'll stand up for us."
"Is it true, sir, is it true?" cried Mrs. Death, a wild terror in her eyes. "We've run here as fast as we could."
"It is unhappily true," he answered.
"Then where's my husband? Do you know what they're saying? That he murdered Mr. Boyd! They lie-they lie! Oh, my God! Is there any justice in the world?"
"Don't make a disturbance, Mrs. Death," said Inspector Robson, very kindly. "I am truly sorry for you, but you can do no good by coming here."
"Where else should I come, sir?" she asked, her tears falling fast. "Mr. Boyd is the only man who can tell me what has become of my husband, and he's dead, you say. Who killed him? What a wicked world-oh what a wicked, wicked world! Haven't I enough to bear without this being thrown in my teeth?"
"Don't take on so, mother," said Gracie, in a dull, apathetic voice, but Dick understood how great her inward suffering was by the convulsive twining of her little fingers round his. "It's all right now we've got Dick. You're our friend, ain't you, Dick?"
"May they be struck down dead for their lies!" sobbed Mrs. Death. "How dare they, how dare they accuse my poor husband, who never raised his hand against a living creature!"
"Do these people live in your neighbourhood?" asked Inspector Robson.
"Yes, sir; they do."
"They should be warned not to be so free with their tongues, or they may get themselves in trouble. Can you point them out?"
"I can show them you," said Gracie, answering for her mother.
"Go with her," said Inspector Robson to Dick, in a low tone, "and give her neighbours a caution. The poor woman has something yet worse in store for her. Then go home to Aunt Rob and Florence, and remain there to-night. They need a man's support and sympathy, and my duties will chain me to the office."
"Thank you, sir," said Gracie, whose sharp ears caught every word, "you're ever so good to us." A sudden tightening of her hand on Dick's caused him to look up, and he saw Dr. Vinsen.
"I have heard what has passed," said the doctor, addressing himself to Inspector Robson, "and shall be glad to offer my services in the interests of humanity-the in-te-rests of hu-ma-ni-ty."
"Who may you be, sir?" inquired Inspector Robson.
"I am Dr. Vinsen. Our friends here have some knowledge of me, I believe." He shed a benevolent smile around. "This is a most shocking murder. It would be worth your while, Mr. Remington, if you could discover the perpetrator of the frightful crime, and so relieve this unfortunate woman's distress. It shall be done, madam, it shall be done. Rely upon me. Let not the criminal hope that his guilt can be for ever hidden. There is an All-seeing Eye-Divine justice will overtake him-will o-ver-take him. Is that the house in which the victim lies?"
"Yes," said Dick.
"A singular place for a man to live in-and die in. Now, my dear madam, if you wish me to admonish these slanderers I am ready to accompany you."
"Dick's going to speak to 'em," said Gracie.
"Oh, Dick's going to speak to them. And you would rather Dick did it?"
"Yes, if you please, sir."
"Well, then, Dick it shall be. I have no doubt he will do it as well as myself-better, perhaps, he being a literary character." There was a faint twinkle in his sleepy eyes. "But you have no objection to my walking a little way with your mother, I hope? Mr. Inspector, have you any opinion-"
"Don't ask me for opinions," interrupted Inspector Robson.
"Pardon my indiscretion, but one's natural curiosity, you know. There will be an inquest?"
"Of course there will be an inquest."
"Of course-of course. Good day, Mr. Inspector, I am greatly obliged to you. Now, my dear madam."
They walked out of Deadman's Court, Mrs. Death and Dr. Vinsen in front, Dick and Gracie in the rear, at whom now and then the doctor, his head over his shoulder, cast an encouraging smile.
"Do you like him, Dick?" asked Gracie.
"No, I don't," he replied, "and I don't know why."
"I do," said Gracie. "He's so slimy."
CHAPTER XXIX
A MODERN KNIGHT OF CHIVALRY
Draper's Mews and its purlieus were on fire with excitement, raised by a spark dropped by a vicious beetle-browed coster, whose chronic state for years past had been too much beer, and liquor of a worse kind. Mrs. Death's neighbours were by no means unfavourably disposed towards her and her family. The kindness of the poor to the poor is proverbial, and there is much less friction in the way of social scandal among the lower classes than among those of higher rank. This was exemplified in Draper's Mews, where the Death family had long resided, and had fought life's bitter battle in amity with all around them. Now and then, of course, small differences had cropped up, but they were soon got over, and there was no serious disturbance of friendly relations. To this happy state of things there was, however, an exception. It happened in this way.
Two or three years ago, on a bright summer day, the beetle-browed coster wheeled his barrow through the poor neighbourhood, disposing of his stock of early cherries at fourpence the standard pound. Children who had a halfpenny or a penny to spare, beggared themselves incontinently, and walked about with cherry ear-rings dangling in their ears, while some made teapots with fruit and stalks, and refreshed themselves with imaginary cups of the finest leaf of China. Abel Death stood by, and looking at the children thought of his own, and fingered the few loose coppers in his pocket. Strange that fruit so tempting and young-the cherries were whitehearts, with the daintiest blush on their innocent cheeks-should have been destined to bring sorrow to the hearts of those who were dear to the poor clerk! But in this reflection we must not forget the apple in the Garden of Eden.
Unable to resist the temptation Abel Death bought half a pound of the pretty things, and had received and paid for them, when he noticed an ugly piece of lead at the bottom of the scale in which the fruit was weighed. What made the matter worse was that on the coster's barrow was displayed an announcement in blazing letters of vermilion, "Come to the Honest Shop for Full Weight." Which teaches a lesson as to the faith we should place in boisterous professions. Abel Death remonstrated, the coster slanged and bullied, there was a row and a growling crowd, some of whom had been defrauded in like manner, and among the crowd an inspector of weights and measures, who, backed by a constable, forthwith brought before the magistrate the cheat, the barrow (the coster wheeling it), the innocent cherries, and the scales with the piece of lead attached to the wrong balance. The moving scene, with its animated audience laughing, babbling, explaining at the heels of the principal actors in the drama, was almost as good a show as a Punch and Judy. With tears in his eyes, which he wiped away with his cuff, the coster declared that he'd take his oath he didn't know how the piece of lead could have got on the bottom of the scale, all he could say was that some one who had a down on him must have put it there to get him in trouble, he'd like to find out the bloke, that he would, he'd make it hot for him; and, despite this whining defence, was fined, would not pay the fine, and went to prison for seven days, whimpering as he was led from the court, "Wot's the use of a cove tryin' to git a honest livin'?"
The result of this swift stroke of justice was a mortal enmity against Abel Death. He proclaimed a vendetta, and waited for his chance, meanwhile avenging himself by kicking and cuffing the younger members of the Death family when he met them, and encouraging his children to do the same. The chance came with the disappearance of Abel Death and the discovery of the murder of Samuel Boyd. Forthwith he set light to a fire which spread with startling rapidity, and he went about instilling his poison into the ears of Mrs. Death's neighbours. Hence her agony of mind.
Dick traced the rumours to their fountain head, found the man, talked to him, argued with him-in vain. It was a public matter, and the usual crowd collected.
"Look 'ere," cried the coster, to Dick, "we don't want none o' your cheek, we don't. Who are you, I'd like to know, puttin' your spoke in? A innercent man, is 'e? Looks like it, don't it? Wot's the innercent man a-keepin' out of the way for? Why don't 'e come 'ome? Tell me that? 'Ere, I'll wait till you've made up somethink, somethink tasty, yer know. Take yer time. Wot! Ain't got a bloomin' word to say for yerself? Wot do you think?" Appealing to the people surrounding them. "'E's a nice sort o' chap to come palaverin' to me, ain't 'e?"
The listeners were not all of one mind, many of them, indeed, being mindless. Some took one side, some took another, while Mrs. Death and Gracie stood by, pitiful, white-faced spectators of the scene.
"Why, it's as clear as mud," continued the coster. "The sneakin' thief killed 'is master, and then laid 'ands on everythink 'e could collar, and cut away. Put them things together, and there you are, yer know."
"I know where you'll be," said Dick, speaking in his best judicial manner, "if you're not careful. It won't be the first time you've got yourself in trouble." The shot told, and the listeners wavered. "We're Englishmen, I believe," said Dick, following up his advantage. "We don't carry knives like the Italians, or fight with our legs like the French, and we're not made in Germany." This cosmopolitan reference was an immense hit, and two or three politicians said "Hear, hear!" Dick went on. "We fight with our fists, and we don't hit a man when he's down. What we insist upon is fair play; that's what we wave our flag for-fair play. Look at Mrs. Death, a hard-working, respectable woman, that's lived among you all these years, and never done one of you an ill turn. Look at her innocent children that this great hulking brute is flinging stones at. It's cowardly, sneaking work. Oh, I'm not afraid of you, my man; if you lift your hand against me I'll give you something to remember me by. You haven't the pluck to hit one of your own size; you only hit women and children. I don't believe you've got a drop of English blood in your cowardly carcase." With sparkling eyes and glowing face he turned to the crowd. "I appeal to a jury of English men and women. Is what this brute is doing manly, is it fair, is it English-that's the point, is it English?"
There was no doubt now as to the sympathy. It went out full and free to Mrs. Death and Gracie, who stood, as it were, in the dock, with the beetle-browed, sodden-faced coster accusing them, and this generous, bright-eyed, open-faced young fellow defending them. A woman who had a good recollection of the cherry incident, called out, "Cherries!" and they all began to laugh. This laughter completely settled the matter; the victory was won. The coster slunk off.
Dick was overwhelmed with congratulations, and Mrs. Death cast grateful glances at him, and wistful glances at her old friends and neighbours. They answered the mute appeal by thronging about her. To her they said, "Never you mind, my dear, we'll see you righted." And to Dick, "You spoke up like a man, sir, and we're proud of you." Which he capped, rather vaguely, by retorting, "I'm proud of you. You're the sort of women that have made England what it is. Wives and mothers, that's what you are." A shrill voice called out, "Not all of us, sir," amid shouts of laughter, which caused Dick to add, "Then I hope you soon will be." This happy rejoinder won him the admiring glances of all the single women, many of whom (as yet unattached) breathed silent aspirations that heaven would send them such a man. At the worst of times Dick was a good-looking young fellow; seen now at his best, glowing with fervour, and espousing the cause of the weak, he was positively handsome. What wonder that maiden hearts were fluttering! He could have picked and chosen.
Dr. Vinsen had been an amused witness of the encounter.
"My young friend," he said, "my dear young friend, victorious again, always victorious; and in eloquence a Demosthenes. Accept my congratulations. Mrs. Death, take your little girl home and put her to bed, then apply a hot linseed poultice. I will call upon you to-morrow morning. Mr. Dick Remington-pardon the familiarity, but Dick is so appropriate-I salute you-sal-ute you."
Dick nodded good-day, and turned off with Gracie.
"Oh, Dick," she said, fondling his hand, "you're splendid, splendid!" No knight of chivalry in "the good old times" (which were much worse than the present) ever inspired deeper admiration in the breast of lady fair than Dick did in the breast of this poor little waif. "I told you, mother, it would be all right if we had Dick with us."
"Yes, you did, dear."
"Don't I wish I was old enough to walk out with you!" said Gracie.
"How do you know I'm not a married man, Gracie?" he asked.
"Go along!" she replied, with a touch of scorn. "As if I don't know the married ones by only looking at 'em!"
"You mustn't mind her foolishness, sir," said Mrs. Death. "She says the silliest things! We're very grateful to you, sir."
"Oh, nonsense," he said, "anyone else would have done the same."
"They wouldn't," said Gracie. "They couldn't."
With a kind pressure of their hands he turned in the direction of Aunt Rob's house, where a very different task awaited him.
CHAPTER XXX
REGINALD'S MAN OF BUSINESS
As it was in Draper's Mews so was it in other parts of the metropolis. The murder was talked of everywhere, and in some mysterious way the disappearance of Abel Death was associated with it. The wildest speculations were indulged in. He had gone to Australia, he had gone to America, he had never left England at all, he had taken with him an enormous sum of money which he had found in the house in Catchpole Square, he had so disguised himself that his own wife and children would not have known him, he had been seen in various parts of London. He was generally condemned, and had no defenders. Had his fate, if caught and in the clutches of the law, depended upon the public vote, his doom would have been sealed.
So was it with Mrs. Pond and Mrs. Applebee, who could talk upon no other subject.
"Applebee says that when Inspector Robson saw the body he turned as white as a ghost."
"Why should he?" asked Mrs. Pond. "It's not the first body he's seen by many."
"Why, don't you know, my dear," said Mrs. Applebee, "that his daughter's married to Mr. Boyd's son?"
"No, I never heard of it."
Mrs. Applebee bristled with importance. "They were married only a few weeks ago, and they do say it was a runaway match. Off they went one morning, arm in arm, to the registrar's office, and she comes home half an hour afterwards, and says, 'Mother, I'm married to Mr. Reginald Boyd.' 'Married, Florence!' cries Mrs. Robson, and bursts into tears.
"Florence!" said Mrs. Pond, in dismay, thinking of the handkerchief.
"That's her name, my dear, and a pretty girl I'm told. She's a lucky one. Applebee says if Mr. Boyd hasn't made a will her husband'll come in for everything. Mr. Boyd must have been worth piles of money. Let's hope it'll do somebody good; it never did while he was alive. It's curious that your lodger, Mr. Remington, is mixed up in it, too. He's Inspector Robson's nephew, you know; him and Miss Florence was brought up together. He's been hanging about Catchpole Square a good deal the last week or two; in the dead of night, too. Applebee says he'd like to get hold of that woman that slipped through his hands on the night of the fog. He's got an idea that she must have something to do with the murder."
"But doesn't he think Abel Death did it?" asked Mrs. Pond, faintly.
"Oh, yes, he thinks that, as everybody does, but the woman might be mixed up with it somehow. Just listen to those boys shouting out another edition. What are they calling out? Fresh discoveries! I must get a paper; that'll be the third I've bought to-day. Perhaps they've caught Abel Death. The man on 'The Illustrated Afternoon' took Applebee's portrait, and I'm dying to see it. I wouldn't miss it for anything."
There was, of course, but one subject in Aunt Rob's mind when Dick presented himself. She told him that Reginald was in a terrible state.
"I couldn't stop the boys coming into the street," she said, "and Reginald heard them. Florence ran down to me all in a flutter, and asked if I didn't hear them calling out something about a murder in Catchpole Square, and what was it? Then she caught sight of the paper that I was trying to hide, and when she looked at it she was frightened out of her life. We did all we could to keep it from Reginald, but he couldn't help seeing from our faces that there was something serious the matter. At last there was nothing for it but to tell him, and we did it as gently as we could. But the shock was dreadful; he sobbed like a little child. Then he cried that he must go to the house, and we had almost to use force to prevent him leaving his bed. Florence threw her arms round him, and begged and implored so that he had to give in. We tried to comfort him by saying that it mightn't be true, that it might be another man who was murdered, and that you and Uncle Rob had gone to see about it. I'm afraid to ask you if it's true, Dick."
"It is too true," he replied, and rapidly related all that had passed since he and Uncle Rob had left her. She listened horror-struck, and when he finished could hardly find voice to ask who he thought was the murderer.
"I don't know what to think," he said.
"There can be only one man," she said, but he stopped her from proceeding.
"Don't let's talk about it just now, aunt. There are a dozen men who would rather see Samuel Boyd dead than alive. He had plenty of enemies, and he deserved to have. If Reginald knew I was here he would want to see me."
"He made me promise the moment either of you came back to bring you up to him."
"We'll go at once. There must be no further concealment."
Reginald was sitting up in bed, very white and haggard.
"I thought I heard voices," he said when they entered the room. "Have you been there?"
"Yes, I have been there," said Dick.
"Did you see him? Speak-speak!"
"I saw him."
"You saw him! Well-well?"
"He is dead."
"My God! My God! My father! – Dead! And he died at enmity with me!" groaned Reginald, sinking down in bed, and turning his face to the wall. They did not disturb him-did not dare to speak. "Is it certain that he was murdered," he said presently in a broken voice, "that he did not die a natural death?"
"I fear there is no doubt."
"Strangled, the paper says-strangled!" Dick was silent. "Strangled in his sleep! Without having time to think, to pray! Oh, Florence, what shame, what misery I have brought upon you!"
"It is an awful misfortune, Reginald, dear," said Florence, her arms round his neck, her face nestled close to his, "and it makes us all very unhappy. But there is no shame in it, dearest."
"There is, there is," he moaned. "Shame, shame-misery and disgrace!"
Dick, observing him closely, strove to arrive at some conclusion, apart from the evidence in his possession, with respect to his complicity in the terrible deed. Innocent or guilty, the shock of the news could have produced no other effect than was shown in the white face, the shaking body, the sobbing voice. There was another interval of silence, which, again, Reginald was the first to break. "Tell me everything."
"You know the worst," said Dick, "let us wait till you are stronger."
"No," cried Reginald, "I cannot wait. You must tell me everything-now, here! Wait? With those cries ringing in my ears? Don't you hear them? Hark!" They listened, and heard nothing. It was the spiritual echo of the ominous sounds that was in Reginald's ears. "Is anyone suspected? Is there any clue? Are not the people speaking about it in the streets?"
"There are all sorts of rumours," said Dick, reluctantly. "When Uncle Rob and I went into the house we found everything as the papers describe. Nothing seems to have been taken away, but of course we can't be positive on that point yet. There were no signs of a struggle."
"The paper speaks of bloody footprints," said Reginald, a white fear in his eyes.
"There are signs of them," said Dick, with a guilty tremor.
"And no blood on my-my father's body, nor in the bed?"
"None."
"The house has been broken into?"
"Yes."
"The man who broke into it did the deed," said Reginald, in a low, musing tone; then, after a pause, "But the blood-the blood! How to account for that? How did you get into the house?"
"Through the front door."
"But-the key!" exclaimed Reginald, and Dick fancied he detected signs of confusion. "Where did you get the key from?"
"A policeman scaled the wall at the back of the house, and entered through the broken window. He found the key in your father's room, and he came down and let us in."
"He had to draw the bolts?"
"The door was not bolted, and the chain was not up."
"Then my father couldn't-," said Reginald, and suddenly checked himself. "Go on."
"When Uncle Rob and I left the house Mrs. Death and her little girl were in the square; she had tried to force herself into the house, but the policeman kept her back. You know from the papers that her husband has not been seen since Friday week."
"Until I read it in this paper an hour ago," said Reginald, pointing to the copy of "The Little Busy Bee" that lay on the bed, "I was in ignorance of it. I cannot understand his disappearance; it is a mystery. The last I saw of him was on the afternoon of that very Friday, when I went to see my father in Catchpole Square."
"Yes?" said Dick, eagerly, greatly relieved at this candid confession. It was a gleam of comfort.
"My father was not at home, and I came away." He pressed his hand upon his eyes, and a long silence ensued. They looked at him anxiously, and Florence, her finger at her lips, warned them not to speak. Removing his hand, he proceeded: "I ought to tell you now why I went to see my father. Had I been well I should have spoken of it before. Even you, Florence, have not heard what I am about to say. Dick, I can trust you not to speak of this to any one."
"You may trust me thoroughly, Reginald."
"I know, I know. In my dear wife's eyes you are the soul of honour and faithfulness, and in my eyes, also, Dick. It is my hope that we shall always be firm friends."
With but one thought in his mind, the peace and happiness of the woman he loved, Dick answered, "And mine."
"Thank you," said Reginald, gravely. "What I wish to tell you commences with my child-life. My mother, when she married my father, brought him a small fortune, and she had money, also, in her own right. Young as I was, I knew that she was not happy, and that there were differences between her and my father, arising partly from his endeavours to obtain the sole control of every shilling she possessed. There were probably other causes, but they did not come to my knowledge. My mother's refusal to comply with his demands was prompted by her solicitude for my future. She was the best of women, and never uttered one word of reproach against my father; she suffered in silence, as only women can, and she found some solace in the love she bore for me and in the love I bore for her. We were inseparable, and, occupying the home with my father, we lived a life apart from him. He had but one aim, the amassing of money, and there was no sympathy between us. I hope there are not many homes in which such estrangement exists. She died when I was ten, and I lost the one dear friend I had in the world. In our last embrace on her deathbed she said to me, in a whisper, 'Promise me that when you are a man-a happy man, I fervently pray-you will not become a money-lender.' I gave her the promise, and an abhorrence of the trade my father practised took deep root in me, and has grown stronger every year of my life. Over an open grave there should be no bitterness, and though my heart is sore I will strive to avoid it. My mother left me her little fortune, and appointed a trustee over whom, by ill chance, my father subsequently obtained great influence, and in the end had him completely in his power. This trustee died when I was twenty-two, and before then my inheritance was in my father's hands to deal with as he pleased. My mother's will was very precise. A certain sum every year was to be expended upon my education until I came of age, when the residue was to be handed to me to make a practical start in life. She named the schools and colleges in which I was to be educated, and when I was nineteen I was to spend the next two years in France and Germany and Italy, to perfect myself in the languages of those countries. It was at my option whether I remained abroad after I came of age, and, in point of fact, I did, returning home a year after the death of my trustee. You will see by these provisions that I was cut off entirely from the domestic and business life of my father, and I understood and appreciated her reasons when I became intimately acquainted with it-as I did when, my education completed, I returned to his home in Catchpole Square. I lived with him between two and three years, and during that time his one endeavour was to induce me to share the business with him, to obey his orders, to carry out his directions, to initiate myself into a system which I detested, into practices which I abhorred. We had numberless discussions and quarrels; he argued, he stormed, he threatened, and I steadily resisted him. At length matters came to a head, and I finally convinced him that I would not go his way, but would carve out a path for myself. 'Upon what kind of foundation will you carve out this path?' he asked. 'You will want money to keep yourself in idleness till you establish a position, and are able to pay for your livelihood.' 'I have it,' I replied. 'Indeed,' he said, 'I was not aware of it. Have you some secret hoard of wealth which you have hidden from me?' 'I have my inheritance,' I said. He laughed in my face. 'Your inheritance!' he exclaimed. 'You haven't a shilling. Every penny of it, and more, has been spent upon your education and riotous living since your beautiful lady mother died.' The sneering reference to my dear mother angered me more than his statement that I was a beggar, and hot words passed between us, in the midst of which I left the room. The next day I returned to the subject, and said I had understood from my trustee that when I was twenty-one years of age I should come into a fortune of eight thousand pounds. 'He lied,' my father said. 'I have the papers and the calculations here in my safe. You can look them over if you like. I deal fair by every man, and I will deal fair by you, ungrateful as you have proved yourself to be. I could refuse to produce the papers for your private inspection, but I am honest and generous, and though all is at an end between us unless you consent to assist me in my business, I will satisfy you that your father is not a rogue. You are indebted to me a large sum of money, and I shall be happy to hear how soon you intend to pay it.' I replied that I would choose the humblest occupation rather than remain with him, and he took from his safe a mass of documents and said I must examine them in his presence. I did examine them, but could make nothing of them, the figures were so confusing. There were records of transactions into which my trustee had entered on my behalf, losses upon speculations, of charges for my education, of sums of money which had been sent to me from time to time for my personal expenses, of interest upon those advances, of interest upon other sums, of the cost of my board and lodging during the time I had lived at home with my father, of the small sums he had given me during the last two or three years, and of interest upon those sums. At the end of these documents there was a debit upon the total amount of twelve hundred pounds, which my father said I owed him. All this I saw as in a mist, but cunning as the figures were, there was no doubt in my mind that I had been defrauded, and by the last man in the world who should have inflicted this wrong upon me. What could I do but protest? I did protest. My father, putting the papers back in his safe, retorted that I was reflecting upon his honesty, that I was his enemy and had better go to law, and that he renounced me as his son. We had a bitter quarrel, which ended in my leaving his house, a beggar, to begin the world; and so strong were the feelings I entertained towards him, and so sensitive was I to the opprobrium which, in the minds of many people, was attached to the name of Boyd, that I determined to renounce it, as he had renounced me. Thus it was that you knew me only as Mr. Reginald; it caused me many a bitter pang to deceive you, and I was oppressed with doubts as to the wisdom of my resolve. All that is now at an end, however, and I ask your pardon for the deceit. Perhaps you have heard from Florence of the struggle I made to provide a home for her, and of my disappointment and despair at not seeing the way to its accomplishment. I thought much of the fraud of which I had been the victim, and the more I thought the more was I convinced that my father was retaining money which rightly belonged to me. At length it seemed to me that it was my duty to see him again upon the subject, and to make an earnest endeavour to obtain restitution. For my own sake, no. Had I not my dear Florence I think I should have left England, and have striven in another country to carve my way; but having seen her I could not, could not leave her. It was in pursuance of this resolution that I went to Catchpole Square last Friday week, and saw Abel Death, who informed me that my father was not at home. Now you know all."