“But let me make sure, in such a serious matter as this is, that I am not mistaken.
“In those happy past days, when I was still dear to my father, you said you thought of writing to invite a dearly-valued friend to pay a visit to this house. You had first known him, as I understood, when my mother was still living. Many interesting things you told me about this old friend, but you never mentioned that he knew, or that he had even seen, my mother. I was left to suppose that those two had remained strangers to each other to the day of her death.
“If there is any misinterpretation here of what you said, or perhaps of what you meant to say, pray destroy what I have written without turning to the next page; and forgive me for having innocently startled you by a false alarm.”
Mr. Gracedieu interrupted me.
“Put it down!” he cried; “I won’t wait till you have got to the end—I shall question you now. Give me the paper; it will help me to keep this mystery of iniquity clear in my own mind.”
I gave him the paper.
He hesitated—and looked at the portrait once more. “Turn her away from me,” he said; “I can’t face my wife.”
I placed the picture with its back to him.
He consulted the paper, reading it with but little of the confusion and hesitation which my experience of him had induced me to anticipate. Had the mad excitement that possessed him exercised an influence in clearing his mind, resembling in some degree the influence exercised by a storm in clearing the air? Whatever the right explanation may be, I can only report what I saw. I could hardly have mastered what his daughter had written more readily, if I had been reading it myself.
“Helena tells me,” he began, “that you said you knew her by her likeness to her mother. Is that true?”