"Then, of course, this doesn't refer to the Philip Carew who was my father," Ethel said, better controlling herself but yet frightened. At what, she did not know. "Does it? Do you think that it does, Mr. Loutrelle?" she demanded, when he did not answer. Then, "Who is this Hus? Did he know my father?"
"I don't think so. He's a friend of mine—a Canadian from Edmonton. He was a lieutenant in my battalion. He'd been wounded and sent to Blighty where he lived with his cousins, London people—"
"Do you think this refers to my father, Mr. Loutrelle?"
"That's what we have to work out together, Miss Carew; and we must go on," he commanded her with that concerned gentleness with which he had spoken before. He reclaimed his letter; and she closed her little hands, holding one white fist and then the other to her lips and blowing upon them before thrusting them into her gloves. He moved a little and waited for her; she came forward beside him, and they proceeded over the smooth, glistening snow.
"Do you know Boyne across there?" he asked, his gray eyes studying her as he motioned with his head in the direction of the distant lake.
"You mean the little town—"
"They call it a city."
"Yes; I know—on the other side. I've been there. What's that to do with my father?"
"If I knew, I'd tell you right out," he assured. "But as it is, the only way I see is to explain how that letter—and what followed—came to me; and that involves a good deal of talking about—"
"What?"
