"I had a special reason. Besides, I of course know the truth. In his heart, God knows, my husband cannot doubt it."
"Then tell me this: is my father dead also, as I have long surmised?"
"No ... yes, yes, Alan, he is dead."
Alan noticed his aunt's confusion, and regarded her steadily.
"Why do you first say 'no' and then 'yes'?"
"Because...."
But here again an interruption occurred. The portière moved back, and then the wide doors disparted. Into the salon was wheeled a chair, in which sat the Marquis de Kerival. Behind him was his attendant; at his side, Kermorvan the steward. The face of the seigneur was still deathly pale, and the features were curiously drawn. The silky hair, too, seemed whiter than ever, and white as foam-drift on a dark wave were the long thin hands which lay on the lap of the black velvet shooting jacket he wore.
"Ah, Lois, is this a prepared scene?" he exclaimed in a cold and sneering voice, "or, has the young man known all along?"
"Tristan, I have not yet told him what I now know. Be merciful."
"Alan MacAlasdair, as the Marquise here calls you,—and she ought to know,—have you learned yet the name and rank of your father?"