"Believing him dead," I said quietly.
"But on the eve of her wedding-day disappeared," Mr. Vandala continued, apparently not heeding my interruptions. "It was a mystery relatives and friends were unable to solve, for with the picture I found a pile of old newspapers, filled with accounts of her disappearance and the hopeless efforts made to find her. That portrait has been my companion since the days of primary schools and round jackets, going with me through college and over Europe. Can you wonder at my agitation when the original seemed to stand before me?"
He paused a moment, but I could find no words in which to answer him. That odd feeling of a former acquaintance with him seemed to be growing upon me.
"It would be interesting to solve the mystery of her disappearance, even now."
"She died that night," I said firmly.
"Pardon me, how do you know? Could she not have entered a convent, or fled to some large city?"
"She died that night," I repeated; "but where and how I cannot tell you."
"You seem familiar with her story," bending to look keenly into my face.
"She was my grandaunt, Euphemia D'Esterre," returning his glance.
"And he was my uncle, Herman Vandala."