“Yes, yes,” she faltered. “I—I know.”
“You know?” he repeated.
“Yes, Mr. Keith told us this morning. He said he met you in Boston.”
“Yes, I had forgotten; so he did.”
“That is how I knew. Oh, Crawford, I am so sorry for you. I have been writing you. But WHY did you come here again? It—it makes it so much harder for—for both of us.”
He did not answer the question. “You knew my father was dead,” he said again. “I wonder”—he was speaking slowly and his gaze was fixed upon her face—“I wonder how much more you know.”
She started back. “How much—” she repeated, “How much more—Oh, what do you mean?”
“I mean how much did you know about my father when you and I were together—when I came on here and asked you to marry me?”
She put a hand to her throat. “Oh!” she cried breathlessly. “YOU know! He told you!”
“Yes, Mary, he told me. Before he died he told me everything. And you knew it! I know now why you would not marry me—the son of a thief.”