"The thought came into my head when I was at my wits' end—for my brother. Not that that's an excuse!"
"I'm not worrying about excuses. It's explanations I need, I had my own theories—thinking it all over—and wondering—whether it would be you or a stranger I should find. The name was the one thing I had to go on: 'O'Malley' and its likeness to Ommalee. That was the way I heard your name pronounced, you know, when we met. I was coming back to see you and make sure. But I was laid up in Paris with an attack of typhoid. Perhaps Mother told you?"
"Yes. But please, let us not talk of that! There isn't much time. You'll have to go back to Fath—to Mr. and Mrs. Beckett. Tell me quickly what you want me to do."
"I was forgetting for a minute. You look very pale, Miss O'Malley. Hadn't you better sit down?"
"No, thank you. I like standing—where I am."
"Ah!" he gave a sudden exclamation. At last he had seen Brian's sketch. He had not noticed it, or any of the "den treasures," before. He had looked only at me.
"Why—it's the picture! And—Gee!"—his eyes travelled round the room—"all my dear old things! What a mother I've got!" He gazed about during a full minute of silence, then turned abruptly back to me. "You love her—don't you?"
"Who could help loving her?"
"And the dear old Governor—you're fond of him?"
"I should be even worse than I am, if I didn't adore them both. They have been—angels to me and my brother."