“Mr Arnold was my father!” she cried, looking at me amazed and stupefied. “I never knew that—I—I can’t believe it—and yet how kind he has always been to me—what beautiful presents he used to buy for me when I was a child—and how tenderly he used to kiss me when we met. Ah yes!” she cried, “I ought to have known; I ought to have guessed. Poor dear father—and he died without betraying to me the secret of my birth.”
“He was a lonely man, Asta,” I said in a low voice, calling her by her Christian name for the first time. “He loved your mother and revered her memory. And he kept from you the secret that he had been cruelly misjudged as a shark and a swindler. He entrusted you to the man I know as Shaw, believing him to be upright and a friend. But, alas! how greatly his confidence has been abused.”
Her eyes were filled with tears.
“You alone, Mr Kemball, have stood my friend,” she said scarcely above a whisper, as she turned her bright gaze upon me. “When I saw that terrible spider in my room I sent word to you, after chasing it out into the corridor. A vague suspicion that it had been placed there purposely crept over me. But Shaw must have allowed it to pass into my room again, after I had dropped off to sleep.”
“I was your father’s friend,” I replied, “and I hope—”
“Poor dear father! Why did he not tell me? He wrote to me to come to the hotel, urging me to say nothing to Mr Shaw. Perhaps he had something to tell me—ah! who knows?” she exclaimed reflectively. “But I arrived there, alas! too late—too late!”
“He probably intended to reveal to you the truth,” I remarked, looking into her pale, wan countenance. “But had he done so perhaps—perhaps you and I would not have been such close friends as we are to-day.”
“Perhaps not,” she sighed. “I remember how, when we motored to Aix, Shaw was very careful of a little box. Ah yes! I owe more to you than I can ever repay.”
“No,” I said softly. “But—but let me make a confession to you, Asta,” and I took the tiny hand that lay outside the down-quilt. “When I first knew you I grew jealous of poor Guy for—ah, forgive me—because—because, Asta, I loved you!”
Her pale face reddened, and her eyes were downcast. She tried to withdraw her hand from mine.