"Then I'll find out from him," cried Hélène. Stanton realised that he was cornered.
"Find out what you please, from whom you please," he said harshly.
"We'll go to him; he'll tell us. We should have done that at first," and Hélène turned to Beverly.
"I warn you, you'll bring untold misery on your head!" shouted Stanton. He was infuriated at the idea of his authority being ignored.
"We want the truth, the truth!" cried Hélène.
Stanton was now beside himself with rage. "Then have it; have it!" The words came in short gasps. "And pay the price for it! The man is your father! Now you know the truth; you can get the details from him!" and Stanton went out slamming the door behind him, the same door through which Von Barwig had gone out in despair the day that Hélène dismissed him.
"Herr Von Barwig my father! My father!" Hélène sank on her knees and clasped her hands. She was trembling with joy. "Thank God! Thank God! Thank God!"
As Von Barwig partially awoke from his sleep he became dimly conscious that he was not alone. Without opening his eyes he realised where he was, and that he was still sitting by the stove, for he felt the glare of the fire on his face, and his immediate surroundings were familiar. The snow on the glass roof above, the portmanteau outside his bedroom door, packed and ready to go; the broken balustrade at the back of the hallway, the sink in the corner, the shelf with the lamps on it; all these familiar objects seemed to be present without his looking directly at them. But there was something else, for a dim figure hovered over him like an angel beckoning him to a fairer, happier land; and the perfume of flowers seemed to fill the room.
"I sleep," said Von Barwig to himself, "but I shall soon wake, and then—it will go." Soon the figure began to take form and to his half-conscious mind it seemed to assume the shape of his dead wife. It was her face, her figure as he had known her many, many years ago.