“Just why are you telling me all this?” he demanded roughly.
She returned his look quietly.
“Because,” she said, “you have been trying to guess my secret for a long time and you have succeeded; haven’t you?”
He was speechless.
“You have been wondering about me, all along. I could see that, of course. I suppose everybody in Brookville has been wondering and—and talking. I meant to be frank and open about it—to tell right out who I was and what I came to do. But—somehow—I couldn’t.... It didn’t seem possible, when everybody—you see I thought it all happened so long ago people would have forgotten. I supposed they would be just glad to get their money back. I meant to give it to them—all, every dollar of it. I didn’t care if it took all I had.... And then—I heard you last night when you crossed the library. I hoped—you would ask me why—but you didn’t. I thought, first, of telling Mrs. Daggett; she is a kind soul. I had to tell someone, because he is coming home soon, and I may need—help.”
Her eyes were solemn, beseeching, compelling.
His anger died suddenly, leaving only a sort of indignant pity for her unfriended youth.
“You are—” he began, then stopped short. A painter was swiftly descending his ladder, whistling as he came.
“My name,” she said, without appearing to notice, “is Lydia Orr Bolton. No one seems to remember—perhaps they didn’t know my mother’s name was Orr. My uncle took me away from here. I was only a baby. It seemed best to—”
“Where are they now?” he asked guardedly.