She raised her head suddenly with a spurt of her old pride.
"My father is a good man," she said, challenging me to deny it. "What he did, he thought right to do. I am not ashamed of him. No!"--and then she would have stopped. But I would not let her. I dared not let her.
"Go on, please!" I insisted, and the pride died out of her face, and she turned in a second to pleading.
"But perhaps he was indiscreet--in what he wrote. He thought, perhaps, too much of his country, too little of those who governed it."
I dropped her hands. I had enough of the truth now. Rumour had always spoken of Santiago Calavera as an intriguer. His daughter was now telling me he was a traitor, too.
"We must find your father," I cried. "He brought you to the ball."
"Yes," said she. "He will be waiting to take me home."
We hurried back to the house and searched the rooms. Calavera was nowhere to be found.
"He cannot have gone!" cried Olivia, wringing her hands. In both of our minds the same question was urgent.
"Has he been taken away?"