“Mr. Deville must use all his influence. He must persuade her not to,” I declared.
She assented.
“He will try. Yet for all her folly, so far as Bruce is concerned, she is not a perfect idiot. She knows that he is my friend—and yours—and she is desperately jealous. She will suspect his advice. She will not accept his bidding blindly. She is cunning. She will agree with him, and yet she will have her own way.”
“He must be very firm,” I said. “There must be no detective come here. It would be the last straw. As it is, the anxiety is terrible enough.”
We were silent, and we exchanged quick and furtive glances. Something in her sad face moved me almost to tears—it was strangely soft, so full of subtle and deep sympathy. Involuntarily I leaned across and held out my hands to her. She caught them in hers with a little passionate gesture. That moment brought us into a new connection. Henceforth we were on a different footing.
“My child!” she moaned. “My poor child! You have a terrible burden upon your young shoulders.”
“The burden I could bear,” I answered, “if only I had some knowledge of its meaning. You know, you could tell me if you would.”
I crossed to her side and fell upon my knees, taking her hand in mine. She looked away into the fire and her face was as white as death.
“I cannot,” she faltered, with trembling lips. “I cannot! Don’t ask me!”
“Oh! but I must!” I cried, passionately. “It cannot hurt me so much to know as it does not to know. There is a secret between you and my father. You knew him as Philip Maltabar. Tell me what manner of man he was. Tell me why he has changed his name. Tell me what there was between him and——”