But Arthur did not reply; he never replied to direct questions as to who Gretchen was; but after a moment's silence he said:
"You speak of her as something past. Do you believe she is dead?"
"Yes, I do," was Frank's decided answer. "You have never told me who she was, though I have my own opinion on the subject, and I know you loved her very much, and if she loved you as much—"
"She did—she did; she loved me more—far more than I deserved," was Arthur's vehement interruption.
"Well then," Frank continued, "If she did, and were living, she would have come to you, or answered your letters, or sent you some message."
Frank's voice trembled here, and he seemed to see again the cold, still face of the dead woman, whose lips, could they have spoken, might have unlocked the mystery and brought a message from Gretchen.
"True, true," Arthur replied. "She would have come or written. How long is it since I came home?"
"Four years next October," Frank said.
"Four years;" Arthur went on, "is it so long as that? and it was then years since I had seen her. Every thing was blotted out from my mind from the time I entered that accursed Maison de Sante until I found myself in Paris. I am afraid she is dead."
Just then Charles came in with lights, and the chocolate his master always took before retiring, and so Frank said good-night, and went out upon the broad piazza, hoping the night air would cool his heated brow, or that the laughter and prattle of Jack and Maude, who were frolicing on the gravel walk, would drown the voice which said to him: