“Cannot you persuade her that there is no such person round here as Philip Maltabar?” he murmured. “She can make her own inquiries, she can consult directories, the police, the residents. It ought not to be hard to convince her.”
“It is impossible,” I answered, shortly.
“Impossible! Why?”
“Because she has seen the photograph, in Adelaide Fortress’s cabinet.”
“What!”
The exclamation seemed to come from his parched, dry lips like a pistol shot. His burning eyes were fixed upon me incredulously. I repeated my words.
“She saw his photograph at the Yellow House. It was in the secret aperture of a cabinet. She touched the spring unwittingly, and it flew open.”
My father turned over and groaned.
“When Fate works like this, the end is not far off,” he cried, in a broken voice. “God help us!”
I fell on my knees by the bedside, and took one of his white hands in mine.