The Padre had not once interrupted her in her long story, and, even now, as the last sound of her voice died out, it was some moments before he spoke.
The fire in the grate rustled and the cinders shook down.
It was then that the girl stirred as though suddenly made aware of the silence. Immediately the man’s voice, cold—almost harsh, in contrast to his usual tone, startled her.
“‘Rest’ is not your name,” he said. “You have changed your name—to further aid your escape from——”
“How do you know that?” Then the girl went on, wondering at the man’s quickness of understanding. “I had not intended telling you. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing seems to matter. Evidently my disguise is useless with you. No, my name is not Rest. My father was Charles Stanmore.”
The man made no reply. He did not move. His keen eyes were on the red-gold hair so neatly coiled about the girl’s head. His lips were compressed, and a deep frown had disturbed the usual serenity of his broad brow.
For a moment Joan bowed her head, and her hands clasped tightly as they were held toward the fire. Presently her voice sounded again. It began low, held under a forced calm.
“Is there no hope?” she implored him. “Buck said you could help me. What have I done that these things should curse my life? I only want peace—just a little peace. I am content to live and die just as I am. I desire nothing more than to be left—alone.”
“Who told you—all this?” The Padre’s voice had no sympathy.
“My aunt. Aunt Mercy.”