"Oh, has he!"
The Mayor, in the agreeable experience of meeting Helen, had forgotten there was such a person as her father. But he was the gallant no longer. His feet spread apart, his face grew stern, and he looked Helen squarely in the eyes.
"Well," he demanded, "—and what do you think o' your father now?"
"My father?" she said blankly.
David caught his arm. "Keep still, Hoffman!" he cried roughly.
The Mayor looked from one to the other in astonishment. "What," he cried, "d'you mean you hadn't told her it was her father?"
The colour of summer faded slowly from Helen's face, and a hand reached out and caught a stoop railing. Her eyes turned piercingly, appealingly, to David. After a moment she whispered, "My father—was that man?"
He nodded.
Her head sank slowly upon her breast, and for moment after moment she stood motionless, silent.
The Mayor when he had thought of her as an instrument to strike her father, had not thought the instrument itself might be pained. Filled with contrition, he stammered: "Please, Miss, I'm sorry—I didn't mean to hurt you."