"His name?" inquired Lorand.
"Lorand Áronffy, a distant relation of ours. He was considered very handsome."
"And since then you have heard no news of your mother?"
"Never a word. I believe she is somewhere in Germany under a false name, as an actress, and is seeking the world, in order to hide herself from the world."
"And what became of the young man? She is no longer with him?"
"As far as I know he went away to the East Indies, and from thence wrote to his brother Desiderius, leaving him his whole fortune—since that time he has never written any news of himself. Probably he is dead."
Lorand breathed freely again. Nothing was known of him. People thought he had gone to India.
"In a few weeks will come again the anniversary of that unfortunate day on which I lost my mother, my mother who is still living: and that day always approaches me veiled: feelings of sorrow, shame, and loneliness involuntarily oppress my spirit. You now know my most awful secret, and you will not condemn me for it?"
Lorand gently drew her delicate little hand towards his lips, and kissed its rosy finger-tips, while all the time he fixed his eyes entreatingly on that ring which was on one of her fingers.
Melanie understood the inquiry which had been so warmly expressed in that eloquent look.