"Gerald's real name?"
"I do not know! I do not know! All that I do know I have told you!"
"And the child's coffin?" She pressed her hand to her forehead.
"It was a dream; I do not know!"
He gazed upon her with profound emotion and pity.
"You must be tired," he said, gently. "Think no more of these troubles to-night."
She turned and went away. He followed to the head of the stairs and waited until he heard her step in the hall below.
"Good-night," he had said, gravely. And from the shadowy depths below came back a faint, mournful echo of the word.
When Edward returned to the room he sat by the window and buried his face upon his arm. Hour after hour passed; the outer world slept. Had he been of the south, reared there and a sharer in its traditions, the secret would have died with him that night and its passing would have been signaled by a single pistol shot. But he was not of the south, in experience, association or education.
It was in the hush of midnight that he rose from his seat, took the picture and descended the steps. The wing-room was never locked; he entered. Through the drawn curtains of the glass-room he saw the form of Gerald lying in the moonlight upon his narrow bed. Placing the picture beside the still, white face of the sleeper, he was shocked by the likeness. One glance was enough. He went back to his window again.