Ralph came into breakfast, creeping to his chair without touching anything, dropping into it as if he had fallen from the clouds. Marion, next to him, shuddered. They were quite good friends, these two, but Marion was slightly afraid of her uncle. His secret ways repelled her; he had a way of talking with his sightless eyes upturned; he seemed to understand the unspoken thoughts of others.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
Marion laughed. None of the others had come down yet.
"What should be the matter?" she replied.
"Well, you shuddered. You should be sorry for me, my dear. Some of these days I mean to tell you the story of my life. Oh, yes, it will be a story—what a story! And you will never forget it as long as you live."
There was something uncanny in the words—a veiled threat, the suggestion of one who had waited for a full revenge, with the knowledge that the time would come. Yet the scarred face was without expression; the eyes were vacant.
"Won't you tell me now?" Marion asked softly. "I am so sorry for you?"
The sweet, thrilling sympathy would have moved a stone, but it had no effect upon Ralph. He merely caressed Marion's slim fingers and smiled. It was significant of his extraordinary power that he found Marion's hand without feeling for it. He was given to touch those slim fingers. And yet he never allowed Marion to kiss him.
"All in good time," he said; "but not yet, not yet."
Before Marion could reply, Mrs. Gordon Ravenspur came into the room. Marion seemed to divine more than see that something had happened. She jumped to her feet and crossed the room.