“Father,” I said, “I have asked you many questions which you have not answered. This one you must answer. I will not live here any longer in ignorance of it. I am your daughter, and there are some things which I have a right to know. Tell me why this woman has your likeness?”
“My likeness!” he said fiercely. “Who dares say that it is my likeness?”
“It is your likeness, father,” I answered. “I saw it, and there can be no mistake. She has admitted it, but she will tell me nothing.”
He shook his head.
“It may happen that you will know some day,” he answered, faintly, “but not from me—never from me.”
I tightened my clasp upon his hands.
“Do not say that,” I continued, firmly. “There is something binding you three together, yet keeping you all apart. You and Bruce Deville and Adelaide Fortress. What is it? A secret? Some common knowledge of an unhappy past? I alone am ignorant of it; I cannot bear it any longer. If you do not tell me what it is I must go away. I am not a child—I will know!”
He lay quite still and looked at me sorrowfully.
“There is a secret,” he said, slowly, “but it is not mine to tell. Have patience, child, and some day you will understand. Only have patience.”
“I have been patient long enough,” I answered, bitterly. “I cannot be patient any longer. If I cannot be trusted with this secret now, I shall go away; Alice can take my place here. I have been at home so little, that you will not miss me. I will go back to Dresden. I have made up my mind.”