"I have, of course, had no means of knowing whether you were living or dead," Helen coldly replied.
"Perhaps it might have been a relief to you if I had died," said John, as, with hopeless eyes, he searched her frozen face for some sign of the old-time gentleness. She made no answer. She was not quite heartless enough, even in her despair over his reappearance, to confirm this gruesome suggestion; yet she was keenly conscious that his presence was almost intolerable to her.
A low, bitter laugh escaped him at her silence, and again a cruel cough racked him.
"Have you a picture of Dorothy?" he inquired, when he recovered his breath.
"Yes, several."
"I want to see them," the man exclaimed, a mighty yearning in his voice; and, rising from his chair, he began to look eagerly around the room for some likeness of his child.
Helen neither moved nor spoke to hinder him. She felt dazed, helpless in this terrible dilemma. She was frightened, rebellious, desperate to be thus confronted with this appalling skeleton of her past, this menace to Dorothy's bright hopes. John Hungerford passed from the reception hall into the parlor, a lovely room, most artistic and dainty in its coloring, decorations, and furnishings; and, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, as if to brace himself against a consciousness of intrusion and rudeness, he began his search for Dorothy's pictures.
Helen, who had followed him, sank, quaking, upon a chair, too weak and unnerved to remain standing a moment longer, and wondering miserably what would be the outcome of this harrowing interview.
Suddenly the man paused, an exclamation of delight escaping him. He had espied a full-length photograph of Dorothy, taken in her wedding robes.
"This is——" he began tremulously, and turning a face quivering with uncontrollable emotion to Helen.