CHAPTER XXIII. WINIFRED TELLS HER NAME.
Unhappily, the time went by without bringing any news of Niall, and the suspense became almost intolerable. I met Roderick O'Byrne once or twice; but he merely gave me a distant bow: I had no conversation with him whatever. Every morning I eagerly questioned the hotel clerk. The answer was always the same: "No, there are no letters."
Then Christmas came. Winifred spent the holidays with me, though I was in constant fear that she should meet with Roderick. One evening at a concert I chanced to look toward a side of the hall where a few men were walking to and fro in the pauses of the music. One who stood near the wall attracted my attention. It was Roderick O'Byrne, and he had evidently caught sight of us, and stood now with his eyes intently fixed upon Winifred's face. The remaining numbers on the programme fell on deaf ears, so far as I was concerned. I did not know what any one played or sang; I could not tell a rondo from a caprice, or if the violinist was accompanied by a flute or a violoncello. I had but one desire—to get out of the hall and away. I kept my eyes upon the programme, avoiding another look.
Presently Winifred touched my arm and whispered:
"Oh, see! he is right over there—the gentleman we met at the hotel."
She watched him as if fascinated; and I saw that their eyes met, exchanging a long, long look. Before the concert was over I arose hurriedly, and, complaining of the heat, told Winifred we must go at once. To my relief, Roderick made no movement to follow us. His fine courtesy prevented him from a course of action so obviously distressing to me. Next day, however, I got a note from him, in which he said:
"The chance meeting of yesterday evening has confirmed me more than ever in the belief that the child whom you choose to surround with so much mystery is in some way connected with my life. The sight of her renewed once more those memories of the past, and filled me with a hope—so strong, if delusive—that I was misinformed regarding the supposed death of my daughter. If this child be not my own Winifred, she must be in some way related to my late wife. I implore you, by our years of friendship, to end my suspense by telling me whatever you may know of the girl. You will be doing the greatest possible service to
"Your devoted friend,
"Roderick O'Byrne."
I answered him at once as follows:
"I beg of you in turn, by our friendship, to wait. Give me a month or two, and I promise to relieve your suspense, or at least to give you such excellent reasons for my silence that you will no longer doubt the sincerity of my desire to serve you."