He looked with some curiosity at the person who admitted him. She was very small, not much above his waist in height, and quite old, with snow white hair and a very peaceful expression of face that contrasted markedly with her evident fear of strangers.
She did not ask Sydney to be seated, and remained standing herself, taking up her station in the doorway that led into the room beyond, as if seeking to bar out any intrusion there.
The apartment in which Sydney found himself was a very pleasant one, well lighted from the large window, whose upper portion was undraped. There were some pictures on the walls, a piano stood at one side, and a guitar could be seen off in one corner.
But Sydney was not in the mood to take many notes of his surroundings. He proceeded at once with the business in hand.
“Was Mr. David Darley any relation to Maurice Darley?” he inquired.
“Will it hurt David if I answer?” replied the old lady cautiously.
“How can it, since you say he is dead?” Sydney responded with the flicker of a smile.
“Well, then,” answered the other, heaving a little sigh, “I don’t see as it can do any harm for me to say that David was his brother.”
“At last,” burst forth Sydney with something between a shout and a groan. He put his hand against the wall as if to steady himself.