“It is false! She will never find him. Philip Maltabar is dead.”
“I wish that we could make her believe it,” I answered. “But we cannot. We shall never be able to.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is not true. Philip Maltabar is not dead. She knows it.”
“What do you mean?” he said hoarsely, raising himself from the pillows. “Who says that he is not dead? Who dares to say that Philip Maltabar still lives?”
“I do!” I answered, firmly. “It is you who have called yourself Philip Maltabar in days that have gone by. It is you for whom she is looking.”
He did not attempt to deny it. I had spoken decisively, with the air of one who knows. He fell back and half closed his eyes. “Does she suspect it?” he whispered. “Is that why she waited? Is that why she came here?”
“I do not think so,” I answered. “Yet she certainly does believe that Philip Maltabar is somewhere here in hiding. She suspects me more than any one.”
“You!—how you?”
“She has an idea that he is a friend of mine—that I am shielding him and trying to keep you away from her, lest she should learn the truth from you. That is what she thinks at present.”