"Yes," she replied. "She belongs to me, and her story is a most romantic one. Some time I will tell it you, and you shall tell me about that dead friend of yours whom Irene resembles."
"Is her name Irene?" he inquired, and she did not fail to notice the uncontrollable start he gave.
"Yes, it is Irene—Irene Berlin. Do you not think it a pretty name?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered, "I like it very much, and it gives me a new interest in the owner. The name of my lost friend was Irene."
"And if I am not mistaken my protege is the friend whom you believed lost. I have stumbled on a romance and a mystery," thought the lady, shrewdly, to herself; but aloud she only said, with apparent unsuspiciousness: "That is quite a coincidence."
Then she said no more, for to her utter surprise she saw Julius Revington leading Irene to the piano.
Irene had always declined to play and sing before to-night, so her friend was quite excusable for the almost open-mouthed surprise with which she regarded her movements.
The white figure settled itself on the piano stool, the white hands fluttered over the keys, a melancholy chord was softly struck, then——
Mrs. Leslie held her breath.