In spite of herself Nita's heart was touched with pity. He had treated her infamously, yet somehow she could not hate him. Her tender heart always ached over the secret she could not betray to him, and her dreams were often haunted by the name "Pepita," that he had uttered in such a tragic tone.
She raised her dark, reproachful eyes to his face, and whispered sadly:
"You need not fear me."
But she was trembling so that she could not touch his offered arm, and she looked appealingly at Mrs. Courtney.
"I would like for Mrs. Hill to attend me to my room," she said gently.
"My dear girl, the housekeeper has an evening out, but I will attend you myself," was the affectionate reply, and Mrs. Courtney, coming forward, led Nita up-stairs and unlocked the door of her room.
"Mrs. Hill found it necessary to lock your room," she said. "That old woman you came with to-night has been prowling about here trying to steal something."
She pushed open the windows and let in the cool air. Then she lighted a lamp, adding carelessly:
"Everything is just as you left it, my dear. Although we believed you dead, it seemed best to trouble nothing until after your guardian's recovery."
Nita had sunk down wearily upon a lounge, her dark head falling among the satin pillows, but at those words she rose up with a startled cry: