“Is Gertrude there?”
“Yes, dear uncle,” said the young girl eagerly.
“Anyone else?”
“I am here too, dear uncle,” said Renée.
“Hah! I am glad to hear you, my children—glad to hear you. How is my brother?”
“Papa is not very well, uncle,” said Gertrude. “Poor dear, his cough is very troublesome.”
“Poor Humphrey! he is so weak,” said the voice, in the same cold, monotonous way that was almost repulsive in its chilling tone. “Tell him, when he is well enough, he can come and talk to me for half an hour. I cannot bear more.”
“Yes, dear uncle, I will tell him,” said Renée.
Then there was another pause, and at last the thin white hand stole cautiously forth, half covered with a lace frill, and the cold voice said:
“Renée!”