The old man fell into a chair, his limbs refusing to support him.
She fell upon her knees beside him, clasping his hands with both her own.
"Dad," she whispered hoarsely, "there is some secret that connects my life with that of Miss Chandler and Lynde Pyne. Tell me what it is. If you do not, I shall find out for myself, and it would be so much better for me to hear it from you than from a stranger, if it is the dreadful thing that your manner leads me to fear. Dad, tell me."
"I cannot," he gasped. "You must believe me when I tell you that there is nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Oh, Leonie, Leonie, my darling, put this nonsense out of your head. If you must know the story, that is an aunt of Miss Chandler's whom I once loved."
He was pointing toward the drawer where the picture was concealed, but the girl knew as well that he was lying to her as though the full knowledge of the humiliating story had been laid bare to her.
"Dad," she exclaimed, "oh, dad, it must be worse even than I thought, when you will descend to a lie! Think again, dad. What is this hidden misery that the mere mention of Miss Chandler's name causes you such bitter suffering?"
"It is not Miss Chandler. You must not think it!" he cried, his voice indistinct from the chattering of his teeth. "I once swore an oath that concerned her—that is all. I cannot tell you, because my word is pledged. Little one, little one, you must believe me. You must trust dad always—always!"
He was trembling as though with a terrible chill, and feeling as though her heart had suddenly turned to ice, Leonie arose from her knees.
"You are exciting yourself, dad," she said gently, "and will be ill to-morrow. Go to bed, will you not?"
"Not until you have promised me that you will not go again to Lynde Pyne's office! I could never rest until you had promised that. Tell me that you will not!"