She crossed the room in silence, and bending over the cabinet touched the spring. The picture smiled out upon me. It was the likeness of a young man—gay, supercilious, debonair—yet I knew it—knew it at once. The forehead and the mouth, even the pose of the head was unchanged. It was my father.
“He called himself once, then, Philip Maltabar?” I cried, hoarsely.
She nodded.
“It was long ago.”
“It is for him the girl is searching. It is he who was her brother’s enemy; it is——”
She held my hand and looked around her fearfully.
“Be careful,” she said, softly. “The girl may have returned. It is not a thing to be even whispered about. Be silent, and keep your own counsel.”
Then I covered my face with my hands, and my throat was choked with hard, dry sobs. The thing which I had most feared had come to pass. The scene in the church rose up again before my eyes. I saw the fierce gestures of a dying man, the froth on his lips, as he struggled with the words of denunciation, the partial utterance of which had killed him. With a little shiver I recognized how narrow had been my father’s escape. For I could no longer have any real doubts. It was my father who had killed Stephen Berdenstein.