"'Cause somebody was here to-day who wanted to know."
"Who?"
With a knowing shake of the head the diplomat answered, "Oh, I mustn't tell you. I promised not to."
"Well, you must keep your promise."
"But why isn't there one?"
"It's a long story, Cyrus. Some day I will tell you, but not just now."
"But why not now? This is when I want to know. I may forget about it."
Dr. Alton was familiar with the gimlet quality of the youthful mind. "Well—Cyrus—let us wait and see if you forget it. And if you——" At that moment he happened to look more carefully at a letter in his hand, delivered during his absence and which he had just taken from the table. Cyrus waited for him to go on. He waited in vain. Dr. Alton stepped hastily to the window for more light, and read the letter. It was evidently of unusual interest, as he forgot to finish his sentence. And when, at last, Cyrus asked him to continue he did not even hear his son's voice.
The letter was written in a woman's hand, and in French.