Why he did not die at that moment was a mystery, but the shock seemed to rather paralyze than excite him. His lips grew a shade bluer and trembled, but that was the only evidence of emotion.
"And you know all?" he asked hoarsely.
"Not all, but, oh, dad, I know I am the daughter of a thief, and it is enough, enough. Dad, dad, why did you do it?"
The misery of the young voice would have been exquisite torture to him had he not been deprived of the capacity of feeling. His brain seemed to act in a way, yet his emotional organs were stunned. He took her by the shoulders and looked her earnestly in the eyes.
"My darling," he murmured, his voice scarcely audible, "do you think I brought that shame into your life? Your mother was my daughter, my dearest! Oh, Leonie, Leonie, I have tried so hard to keep this hideous thing from you, for this—for this! Child, child, why did you do it?"
"It is better so, dad, much better! It has shown me what my life must be, and my—dreams—were—different. Somehow I feel better to know that you are not my father, that you did not bring this shame upon me! Oh, dad, why can we not die together and end it all?"
A curious expression crept over the white, still face of the old man, but he made no comment, only smoothed down the bright, beautiful hair with a hand that trembled peculiarly.
"Now that you know so much, my little one, I must tell you all," he stammered, wearily.
He tried to rise, but the effort it cost was beyond his strength.
"Look in the desk there and get me the picture you saw," he whispered, handing her a key.