"I—I don't think I quite understand," he faltered, "You—you're speaking of Marcia?"
"Of Marcia, certainly. But you said you knew the story."
She was looking at him intently, her face suddenly pale.
"Was it something else?" she asked. "Something else? Was it the letter? Tell me!"
"No, no," he protested, and stopped, unable to go on.
"I don't think he heard it quite correctly, Mrs. Lawrence," I said, seeing that he needed saving. "Do I understand you to say Miss Lawrence isn't your daughter?"
"She's Ruth Endicott's daughter. She was housekeeper here and she—she—But no matter. No one knew except her cousins, the Kingdons. It was Harriet who took her away—to Florida—and she died there. They promised to keep the secret—it was to their interest—we did everything we could for them—I was kinder to them than they deserved. But I loved the child—I had none of my own—I wanted to protect my husband's memory—Where was the sin in——"
"Where is she?" demanded Curtiss hoarsely, but with a great light in his eyes. "Where is she?"
"Then you don't mind? You won't——"
"Mind!" cried Curtiss. "Mind! Where is she?"