"I think you must be mistaken," said Gertrude, who looked puzzled, "the photograph is certainly one that my father had taken early this year."
"Then your father is Wentworth Marr," insisted Mabel, examining the photograph more closely.
"Walter Monk is my father's name," said Gertrude with some stiffness, "there is no need for him to change it."
Mabel looked round at me, and I shivered again. The heavens were falling. "I ask you, Cyrus," she cried imperatively, "isn't this," she touched the photograph, "Mr. Marr."
"There is a likeness," I admitted cautiously.
"Nonsense! it's Mr. Marr himself. You met him at Aunt Lucy's. You must know."
"Know what?" I asked doggedly and uneasily.
"That this," she touched the photograph again, "is Mr. Marr."
I was silent, and looked at my toes, wondering what was best to say. Certainly I had made a promise to Monk to be silent, provided he fulfilled certain conditions. He had done so, and therefore my lips were sealed. Then I recalled the fact that I had limited the time of concealment to a fortnight and thus, in all honor, I was now free to tell the truth. It seemed necessary to do so at the moment, as no other course was open to me. Mabel was a most pertinacious young woman, and would never leave things alone until her doubts were set at rest. Moreover, Gertrude was looking at me inquiringly, as she had noticed my obvious embarrassment.
"Cyrus," she asked, and I raised my eyes, "what does this mean?"