She looked at him, terrified at his tone. His panic passed in a wave from him to her, and was the more unbearable because she did not yet understand the cause of it.
"What is it? Tell me!" She faced him, and extended her hand.
He retreated from her.
"It's Mamsy's trunk," he said, trying to control his voice. "Oh, don't you see?"
"I'm too frightened to think!" she cried, clasping her hands. "I can't think. Tell me quickly, or I shall faint!"
"Doesn't your intuition tell you?" he asked bitterly. "Why should it fail you now, when it should be stronger than ever before?"
"It tells me nothing, except that you are killing me with suspense. Oh, but I know you are suffering, too! Let me share it. Francis, you don't doubt my love for you, whatever happens, do you?"
He caught her hand again and dashed it away.
"Oh, you should see!" he cried. "It's so plain, now! I am Madam Grant's son—and my father—is your father! I am your half-brother! It's all ended between us, now!"
"How do you know?" She was trembling. "How does this prove it? It is Felicia Grant's trunk, of course—but we knew already that my father had an interest in her—he must have bought this trunk at the auction when she died—but why does it prove you are his son? Why should you think that there was ever such a relation between them? It's horrible!"