"What did you say was his name?" asked Mr. Stanton, barely able to repress the emotion in his voice.
"Professor Von Barwig. Oh, he's not known here as well as he was in Germany! What's the matter, father?" she cried out as the man almost tottered into his chair. "Father, father! what is it?"
"Nothing, nothing; what should be the matter? I—these attacks come periodically now. A little heart trouble—it will soon pass away. Ring for Joles!"
She obeyed him instantly.
"Good God, good God! Is it possible? Right under my own roof!" muttered Stanton, "and with her! Oh, God!"
"I rang for him, father," said Hélène, looking at him anxiously.
"It's Ditson I want to see. Ditson, Ditson! not Joles." Then he added quickly, "No, I don't want to see any one! I'm better now; these attacks pass away quickly. Sit down, my dear child; I want to talk to you. What were you saying?" he asked, anxious to hear and yet not wishing to arouse her suspicion as to the cause of his anxiety.
"Nothing of any importance, father."
"Yes, yes; I insist! Go right on with our conversation where we left off. You were speaking of your—your—musical professor, Anton Von Barwig." Mr. Stanton had almost completely recovered himself now.
"How did you know his first name, father?"