Yes, Mrs. Darlington was at her writing table, lighted now by candles on each side which, covered by little red shades, only dimly illuminated the apartment. Merle flitted in without her coming being observed.
Mrs. Darlington was no longer writing—her elbows were resting on the table and both hands were covering her eyes in an attitude of deep thought, perhaps of sleep, as Merle for a moment imagined when she had noiselessly gained her side.
“Mother dear,” she said softly, laying a hand on her shoulder.
“You here, my child?” exclaimed Mrs. Darlington. There was no trace of slumber in her eyes.
“Yes, and I want to have a little talk with you—all alone,” said Merle, as she dropped into a chair, the very chair which Mr. Robles had previously occupied.
The look of vague sadness and anxiety in Mrs. Darlington’s face deepened.
“What about, dear?” she asked.
Merle’s mind had been made up, and she came to the issue with point-blank abruptness.
“Is Mr. Robles my father?”
The startled look on the other’s face was almost in itself an admission of the truth—Mrs. Darlington had been caught off her guard. But she made a desperate attempt to parry the question.