I was not sure about it. I watched them disappear. He was stooping down so as to catch every word she said. Obviously he was doing his best to adapt himself and to be properly sympathetic. I was angry with myself and ignorant of the cause of my anger.
“Never mind about them,” I said, abruptly. “There is something else—more important—Mrs. Fortress.”
“Yes.”
“I want to see that photograph—the photograph of the man whom she called Philip Maltabar.”
She shook her head. Was it my fancy, or was she indeed a shade paler?
“Don’t ask me that,” she said, slowly. “I would rather not show it to any one.”
“But I have asked you, and I ask again!” I exclaimed. “There are already too many things around me which I do not understand. I am not a child, and I am weary of all this mystery. I insist upon seeing that photograph.”
She laid her hands upon my shoulders, and looked up into my face.
“Child,” she said, slowly, “it were better for you not to see that photograph. Can’t you believe me when I tell you so. It will be better for you and better for all of us. Don’t ask me to show it to you.”
“I would take you at your word,” I answered, “only I have already some idea. I caught a fugitive glimpse of it just now, before you touched the spring. To know even the worst is better than to be continually dreading it.”