She rose in surprise, and came beside his chair. He grasped her soft hand, and she sank upon her knees, as she so often did when they spoke in confidence.
“Well—I’ve been wondering, child, what—what you will do in future,” he said, with a catch in his voice. “Perhaps—perhaps I may have to go away for a very, very long time—years perhaps—on a long journey, and I shall, I fear, be compelled to leave you, to——”
“To leave me, dad!” gasped the girl, dismayed. “No—surely—you won’t do that? What could I do without you—without my dear, devoted dad—my only friend!”
“You will have to—to do without me, dearest—to—to forget your father,” said the white-faced man in a low, broken voice. “I couldn’t take you with me. It would be impossible.”
The girl was silent; her slim hand was clutching his convulsively; her eyes filled with the light of unshed tears.
“But what should I do, dad, without you?” she cried. “Why do you speak so strangely? Why do you hide so many things from me still—about our past? I’m eighteen now, remember, dad, and you really ought to speak to me as a woman—not as a child. Why all this mystery?”
“Because—because it is imperative, Sonia,” he replied in a tone quite unusual. “I—I would tell you all, only—only you would think ill of me. So I prefer that you, my daughter, should remain in ignorance, and still love me—still——”
His words were interrupted by Felix, who opened the door, and, advancing with silent tread, said—
“A gentleman wishes to speak with m’sieur on very urgent business. You are unacquainted with him, he says. His name is Max Morel, and he must see you at once. He is in the hall.”
Poland’s face went a trifle paler. Whom could the stranger be? Why did he desire an interview at that hour?—for it was already eleven o’clock.