"Your father?" There was no hesitation in his voice now. "Your father," he repeated, his voice rising higher. "Ah!" and a flood of light came in upon him. "When you left me a few moments ago, you went to him, and then, on your return—you—you sent me away; is it not so? Tell me," he demanded, "is it not so?"
Gone was the hopeless misery, gone were the shambling gait, the pathetic smile, the helplessness of resignation to overwhelming conditions. Gone, too, were the tears, the pleading look, and in their place stood Anton Von Barwig, erect and strong, his eyes glittering with fire, the fire of righteous indignation, his voice strong and clear. Hélène looked at him in amazement. She could not understand the transformation.
"Your father!" repeated Von Barwig in a loud, stern voice. "So! the time has come! I think perhaps I see your father. It is time we met; a little explanation is due. Miss Stanton, I shall see—your—father."
"Yes, you shall see him!" said the girl. "I'll—I'll speak to him for you; I am sure you can explain."
"Yes, I can explain," said Von Barwig with a low, hard laugh. "Where is he?"
"In the library," replied Hélène.
"Ah? Then I go there and see him," said Von Barwig in a decided tone. This new mental attitude of the music master amazed her. The little low, shambling figure was transformed into an overwhelming force.
"Perhaps I had better see him first," suggested Hélène.
"No," said Von Barwig. "I see him." His tone was almost commanding. Hélène looked at him in astonishment. She was pleased; at least these were not signs of guilt on his part. She no longer hesitated.
"Perhaps you're right," she said. "Come, we'll see him together."