He had bent slightly toward her in speaking, but at sound of the name he stood suddenly upright, his sallow face turned very red, and he looked at her with a gaze so piercing that she shrank from it. "Who were your father and mother?" he demanded.
"My mother was Eugénie Lubormirski, a Polish exile, and my father was Mr. Robert Yorke, of Boston," said Edith. Her eyes were fixed intently on the gentleman's face, and her heart began to beat quickly.
He turned away from her and resumed his walk, but, after a minute, came back again. "Your father and mother are both dead?" he asked in a gentler tone.
"Yes, sir."
"You have no brothers nor sisters?"
"No, sir."
"Who takes care of you?"
"Mrs. Jane Rowan," Edith replied, laying her hand on the widow's lap.
He bowed, taking this for an introduction, a cold but courteous bow.
"May I ask, madam," he inquired, "what claim you have on this child?"