"I do not understand you," she said through her lips that had suddenly grown white and trembling.
A slight smile curved Julius Revington's mustached lips, as he saw how much he had startled her.
"Master rather than slave," he repeated to himself, vindictively, for that was the way he interpreted her eloquent description of her ideal.
"I told you the faces were not strange to me," he said. "Shall I tell you their names?"
"You cannot," she returned, miserably.
"Do not deceive yourself," he retorted. "The old man is Ronald Brooke, the beautiful woman is his daughter, Elaine."
A startled cry broke from her lips, she flashed her eyes upon him in a swift, horrified gaze, a terrible suspicion darting through her heart.
"You know her?" she cried out, hoarsely.
His answer dispelled the horrible dread that had clutched at her heart with icy fingers.
"No, I have never met her in my life, but I have seen her picture before," he said.