Then she turned to lead him back to the sitting-room, and as she turned, unable to speak, unable even to think what to say, he took her hand and pressed it.
“I know,” she replied.
He followed her into the sitting-room, and quite regardless of the old lady by the fire, she led him to one of the windows.
Merridew’s library lay opposite, and as they stood and she talked to him they watched the people entering the shop and the people walking on the pavement.
“It was eight years ago,” she said. “I have not changed my name—you must have heard of the case. It was the Lefarge case—ah no?” She paused for a moment, “eight years ago. I cannot tell you the details, but it was in the spring. An artist made that bust of my dear father. The artist’s name was Müller; he had the face of a demon. I saw him twice, and his face still haunts my dreams. I see it now before me as I talk to you. It was a pale face, a weary face, the face of a man who has known all evil.
“He was a great artist, his name was Müller, a German, who lived in the Quartier Latin. He was known as the madman. My dear father allowed him to make that bust, gave him sittings, twice invited him to our house.
“When I saw this awful man,” went on the girl, her voice sinking lower, “I felt as though I had seen evil itself. I implored my father to have nothing to do with him. He laughed. He had no fear of evil. He was all good.
“He called at Müller’s studio one day; listen to me, my friend, for this is what the world says, he called at Müller’s studio one day and murdered him.
“Listen to me, he murdered him, disappeared, and was never seen again. He decapitated Müller, and the headless body was found in the studio. That is what the world says. But he did not do it, I know, for I feel it here where I place my hand.”
She placed her little hand, not to her side, but towards the centre of the breast, where the heart really lies.