"Her father was called Penryn—John Penryn, I think his name was."
"But how can that be? Did he not kill his wife before—that is, did she not die?"
"No," I said, "he did not. He thought he killed her, and because of it committed suicide, but his wife was not dead. She got better soon after—indeed, she died only a year or two ago."
"And Penryn committed suicide, you say?"
"Yes."
"And the girl you love is his child?"
"Yes. But what is all this to you? Why have you followed me? What are my affairs to you?"
"Everything, Jasper Pennington. Stop, let me think."
"I cannot stop, I must get this away! Look you, man," and I caught his arm, "this is nothing to you, I have found it," and I kicked the iron box. "It's mine, mine!"
"No, no; it's not yours, I tell you." He stopped and looked around him, then clenched his hands as though he were passing through a terrible crisis.