"No, it is not English, so far as I am a judge."
"It comes probably," she suggested, and I was convinced that she spoke with premeditation, "from a foreign source."
"Most probably," I said.
"Perhaps from the mountains in the Tyrol."
A Tyrolean air! I seized upon the suggestion, and accepted it as fact, though I was quite unable to speak with authority. But why to me, who had never been out of England, should come this melody of the Tyrol? I could no more answer this question than I could say why the impassive, undemonstrative woman before me was, as it were, revealing me to myself and probing my soul to its hidden depths.
"It may be so," I said. "Do you seek for any further information from me?"
"No, sir." But there was a slight hesitancy in her voice which proved that this was not the only subject in her mind which bore upon my inner life.
"And now," I said, "I must ask you why you put these questions to me, and by what means you became possessed of my secret, mention of which has never passed my lips?" She shook her head, and turned towards the door, but I imperatively called upon her to stay. "You cannot deal with me upon this subject as you have upon all others. I have a distinct right to demand an explanation."
"I can give you no explanation, sir," she said, with deference and respect.
"You refuse?"