He turned away, his hand was on the door-latch, before she spoke again.
"There is something more," she said, without moving from the spot where she had stood throughout the recital. The same calm, cold voice,—the same compelling manner. "It was my pleading, back in those other days, that finally persuaded Robert Gwyn to let me bring Minda up as his daughter. He was bitterly opposed to it at first. He never quite reconciled himself to the deception. He did not consider it being honest with her. He was as firm as a rock on one point, however. He would bring her up as his daughter, but he would not give her his name. It was after he agreed to my plan that he changed the spelling of his own name. She was not to have his name,—the name he had given his own child. That was his real reason for changing his name, and not, as you may suspect, to avoid being traced to this strange land."
"A belated attempt to be fair to me, I suppose," he said, ironically.
"As you like," she said, without resentment. "In the beginning, as I have told you, he believed it to be his duty to tell her the truth about herself. He was sincere in that. But he did not have the heart to tell her after years had passed. Now let me tell you what he did a few weeks before he passed away,—and you will know what a strange man he was. He came home one day and said to me: 'I have put Viola's case in the hands of Providence. You may call it luck or chance if you like, but I call it Providence. I cannot go to her face to face and tell her the truth by word of mouth, but I have told her the whole story in writing.' I was shocked, and cried out to know if he had written to her in St. Louis. He smiled and shook his head. 'No, I have not done that. I have written it all out and I have hidden the paper in a place where she is not likely to ever find it,—where I am sure she will never look. I will not even tell you where it is hidden,—for I do not trust you,—no, not even you. You would seek it out and destroy it.' How well he knew me! Then he went on to say, and I shall never forget the solemn way in which he spoke: 'I leave it all with Providence. It is out of my hands. If she ever comes across the paper it will be a miracle,—and miracles are not the work of man. So it will be God Himself who reveals the truth to her.' Now you can see, Kenneth, that the secret is not entirely in our keeping. There is always the chance that she may stumble upon that paper. I live in great dread. My hope now is that you will find it some day and destroy it. I have searched in every place that I can think of. I confess to that. It is hidden on land that some day will belong to Viola,—that much he confided to me. It is not on the land belonging to you,—nor in your house over there."
"You are right," he said, deeply impressed. "There is always the chance that it will come to light. There is no telling how many times a day she may be within arm's length of that paper,—perhaps within inches of it. It is uncanny."
He cast a swift, searching look about the room, as if in the hope that his eyes might unexpectedly alight upon the secret hiding place.
"He could not have hidden it in this house without my knowing it," she said, divining his thought.
He was silent for a moment, frowning reflectively. "Are you sure that no one else knows that she is not his daughter?"
"I am sure of it," she replied with decision.
"And there is nothing more you have to tell me?"