"Was he—" Frank turned and looked squarely at his friend, as he always did when he had a venturesome question to put—"was he fond of his daughters?"
Edgar had probably been expecting some such turn in the conversation as this, yet he frowned and answered quite hastily, though with evident conscientiousness:
"I could not make out; I do not know as I ever tried to; the matter did not interest me."
But Frank was bound to have a definite reply.
"I think you will be able to tell me if you will only give your mind to it for a few moments. A father cannot help but show some gleam of affection for two motherless girls."
"Oh, he was proud of them," Edgar hurriedly asserted, "and liked to have them ready to hand him his coffee when his experiments were over; but fond of them in the way you mean, I think not. I imagine they often missed their mother."
"Did you know her?"
"No, only as a child. She died when I was a youngster."
"You do not help me much," sighed Frank.
"Help you?"