“From whose estate?”
“My grandfather's.”
“And his name was?”
“Why—why, Mr. Keith, actually I do not know. It may seem strange, but—but I cannot even tell the names of my parents; I cannot remember either my father or mother. Oh, I do not know why I should tell you all this! Who are you, really? Why do you ask me such questions?”
He leaned forward, touched by the woman's emotion. “Miss Maclaire,” he said gravely. “I am not prying into your life needlessly, but am endeavoring to serve you as well as others. Hawley may indeed possess papers of great value, but if so they were not found by accident, but stolen from the body of a murdered man. These papers may possibly refer to you, but if so Hawley himself does not believe it—he has simply chosen you to impersonate the right party because of physical resemblance.”
“Resemblance to whom?”
“To a young woman, a Miss Hope.”
“But how do you know this? Why should you be interested? Are you a detective?”
“No, I am not a detective, but I cannot explain to you my interest. I am trying to serve you, to keep you from being drawn into a plot—”
“Rather to keep me from learning the truth, Mr. Jack Keith,” she burst forth, rising to her feet indignantly. “You are here trying to prejudice me against Mr. Hawley. He is your enemy, and you have come to me stabbing him in the back for revenge. That is your interest. Well, I am going to see the man, and consider what he has to say. I don't care half so much about the money as I do to find out who I am. If he can throw any light on my early life, on my parentage, I shall be the happiest woman in the world. I am sorry I told you anything—but I am going to see him just the same. Perhaps he might tell me something about you.”