She laid her hand upon his arm and grasped it hard; her eyes searched his to the soul. He smiled—her hand dropped—her countenance fell—and oh! such bitter disappointment broke through her voice.
"It has been the vulture preying on my heart ever since. A word would have torn it away, but you will not take the trouble even to deceive me. You smile, only smile!"
"I only smile at the absurdity of your suspicion."
She looked up eagerly, but with doubt in her face. She panted to believe him, but lacked the necessary faith.
"I asked him to deny this on his death-bed, and he could not!"
"Then he is dead," was the quick rejoinder. "He is dead!"
"Yes, he is dead," she answered in a low voice.
"And the daughter, his heiress?"
"She too is dead!"
He longed to ask another question. His eyes absolutely gleamed with eagerness, but his self-control was wonderful. A direct question might expose the unutterable meanness of his hope. He must obtain what he panted to know by circuitous means.