As this memory pressed upon my mind, I entered the room where Turner awaited me, took out the ribbon, and hung it with the gold around my neck.
“Do I look like her now?” I said, turning upon the old man with steady coldness.
He did not reply. His distended eyes were fixed on the antique rings in my ears—a sort of terror possessed him at the sight.
“Zana, where did you get those accursed things?” he said.
I did not answer, but took my mother’s journal from the coffer and closed the lid over the gold.
Turner followed me from the room, evidently filled with awe by the cold stateliness of my demeanor.
With a heart harder than the nether millstone, I entered the house which held my dying father. No misgivings of humanity possessed me—my soul was cruel in its purpose, and my footsteps fell like iron upon the tessellated vestibule.
Upon the staircase we met Lady Catherine Irving. She confronted me with her impatient wrath and ordered me back, denouncing Turner for having introduced me a second time against her commands. I listened till she had done, and then sternly pursued my way, leaving Turner behind.
I opened the door of Lord Clare’s chamber. A voice from the bed, feeble and sharp as that of an old man, called out:
“Turner, Turner, is it you? Have you found the child?”