“So she has. But I think my theory is the correct one,” replied the girl. “What was it that you asked her to reveal to you?”
“Well,” he replied, after a brief hesitation, “my father died mysteriously in London some time ago, and I have reason to believe that she knows the truth concerning the sad affair.”
“Where did it happen?”
“My father was found in the early morning lying in a doorway in Albemarle Street, close to Piccadilly. The only wound found was a slight scratch in the palm of the hand. The police constable at first thought he was intoxicated, but the doctor, on being called, declared that my father was suffering from poison. He was at once taken to St. George’s Hospital, but an hour later he died without recovering consciousness.”
“And what was your father’s name?” asked Lisette in a strangely altered voice.
“Henfrey.”
“Henfrey!” gasped the girl, starting up at mention of the name. “Henfrey! And—and are—you—his son?”
“Yes,” replied Hugh. “Why? You know about the affair, mademoiselle! Tell me all you know,” he cried. “I—the son of the dead man—have a right to demand the truth.”
“Henfrey!” repeated the girl hoarsely in a state of intense agitation. “Monsieur Henfrey! And—and to think that I am here—with you—his son! Ah! forgive me!” she gasped. “I—I——Let us return.”
“But you shall tell me the truth!” cried Hugh excitedly. “You know it! You cannot deny that you know it!”