“At last, then, the mystery is solved,” she cried, triumphantly. “I was a fool or I should have guessed it long ago! Have you forgotten me, Philip Maltabar?”
My father rose to his feet. He was serene, but grave.
“No, I have not forgotten you, Olive Berdenstein,” he said, slowly. “Yours is not a name to be forgotten by me. Say what you have come to say, please, and go away.”
She looked at him in surprise, and laughed shortly.
“Oh, you need not fear,” she answered, “I have not come to stay. I recognized you in the cathedral, and I should have been on my way to the police station by now, but first I promised myself the pleasure of this visit. Your daughter and I are such friends, you know.”
My father took up some writing paper and dipped his pen in the ink as though about to commence a letter.
“I think,” he said, “that you had better go now. The police station closes early here, and you will have to hurry as it is—that is, if you wish to get a warrant to-night.”
She looked at him fixedly. He certainly had no fear. My heart beat fast with the admiration one has always for a brave man. The girl was being cheated of her triumph.
“You are right,” she said, “I must hurry; I am going to them and I shall say I know now who was my brother’s murderer! It was Philip Maltabar, the man who calls himself Canon Ffolliot. But though he may be a very holy man, I can prove him to be a murderer!”
“This is rather a hard word,” my father remarked, with a faint smile at the corners of his lips.