A long moment they stood gazing at each other, the girl and the Abbé John. They might have been sister and brother. There was the same dark clustering hair, close-gripped in love-locks to the head. The same large, dark, wide-pupilled eyes looked each into each as they stood and gazed across the dead man.
For a moment nothing was said, but the Abbé John recovered himself first.
"He knows you are here?" he questioned, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
"Who?" The girl flung the question back.
"Our Professor of Eloquence, the Doctor Anatole Long?"
"Aye, surely," said the girl; "he it was brought us hither."
He pointed to the dead man.
"Your father?"
The girl put her hand to her breast and sighed a strange piteous affirmative, yet with a certain reserve in it also.
"What was he, and how came you here?"