"Besides what?"

"Hasn't it ever occurred to you," he said, slowly, "that if a man hated your brother so much as to follow him down here and kill him, that so great a hatred must have sprung from some great cause? I know nothing, of course, of your brother's life, or of the manner of his life. But men do not strike one another without provocation. They do not kill one another without very great provocation."

"I see what you mean," she said, slowly. "You mean that my brother must first have been the sinner."

"I am not taking that for granted," he said, hastily; "only one cannot help thinking sometimes that it might have been so."

"He was my brother," she said, simply. "He was all that I had in the world. My desire for justice may be selfish. Yet I hate the man who killed him, and I want to see him punished. I do not believe that any sin of his could ever have deserved so terrible a retribution."

"Perhaps not," he said; "yet there is so little that you can do. To search for any one by the name of Maltabar around here you have proved a hopeless task; and that is your only clue, is it not?"

"I am sending," she said, "for a London detective. I shall remain here until he arrives, at any rate."

Again we looked at one another questioningly, and our silence was like a fresh note of antagonism to her avowed purpose. She could not fail to notice it, and she commenced to talk of other things. I believe but for Mr. Deville's presence she would have got up and left us. Open war with us women could not have troubled her in the least. Already I could tell that she had contracted a dislike to me. But for his sake she was evidently anxious--oppressively anxious--to keep friendly.

She tried to draw him into more personal conversation with her, and he seemed quite ready to humor her. He changed his seat and sat down by her side. Adelaide Fortress and I talked listlessly of the Bishop's visit and our intending removal from the neighborhood. We studiously avoided all mention of my last visit to her and its sensational ending. We talked as ordinary acquaintances might have talked, about trifles. Yet we were both of us equally conscious that to a certain extent it was a farce. Presently there was a brief silence. The girl was talking to Mr. Deville, evidently of her brother.

"He was so fond of collecting old furniture," she was saying. "So am I. He gave me a little cabinet, the image of this one, only mine was in black oak."

She bent over a little piece of furniture by her side, and looked at it with interest.

"Mine was exactly this shape," she continued; "only it had a wonderful secret spring. You pressed it just here and the top flew up, and there was s.p.a.ce enough for a deed or a photograph."

She touched a portion of the woodwork idly as she spoke, and there was a sort of click. Then she sprang to her feet with a little tremulous cry.

A portion of the back of the cabinet had rolled back at the touch of her fingers. A cabinet photograph was disclosed in the niche. She was bending over it with pale cheeks and bloodless lips.

"What is it?" I cried, with a sudden pain at my heart. "What have you found there?"

She turned around and faced Adelaide Fortress. Her eyes were flashing fire.

"You are all deceiving me," she cried, pa.s.sionately. "I was beginning to suspect it. Now I know."

"What do you mean?" I cried.

She pointed to the photograph with trembling fingers.

"You have all declared that the name of Maltabar is strange to you. It is a lie! That is the likeness of the man I seek. It is the likeness of Philip Maltabar."

CHAPTER XVI

"IT WAS MY FATHER"

The two women were standing face to face. Bruce Deville and I had fallen back. There was a moment or two's breathless silence. Then Adelaide Fortress, with perfect composure, moved over to the girl's side, and glanced over her shoulder.

"That," she said, quietly, "is the photograph of a man who has been dead twenty years. His name was not Maltabar."

"That," repeated the girl, unshaken, "is the photograph of Philip Maltabar."

I stepped forward to look at it, but, as if divining my purpose, Adelaide Fortress touched the spring and the aperture was hidden.

"That photograph," she repeated, coldly, "is the likeness of an old and dear friend of mine who is dead. I do not feel called upon to tell you his name. It was not Maltabar."

"I do not believe you," she said, steadily. "I believe that you are all in a conspiracy against me. I am sorry I ever told you my story. I am sorry I ever sat down under your roof. I believe that Philip Maltabar lives and that he is not far away. We shall see!"

She moved to the door. Mr. Deville stood there ready to open it. She looked up at him--as a woman can look sometimes.

"You at least are not against me," she murmured. "Say that you are not! Say that you will be my friend once more!"

He bent down and said something to her very quietly, which we did not hear, and when she left the room he followed her. We heard the hall door slam. Through the window we could see them walking down the gravel path side by side. She was talking eagerly, flashing quick little glances up at him, and her fingers lay upon his coat sleeve. He was listening gravely with downcast head.

Adelaide Fortress looked from them to me with a peculiar smile. What she said seemed a little irrelevant.

"How she will bore him!"

"Oh! I don't know," I answered, with an irritation whose virulence surprised me. "Men like that sort of thing."

"Not Mr. Deville," she said. "He will hate it."

I was not sure about it. I watched them disappear. He was stooping down so as to catch every word she said. Obviously he was doing his best to adapt himself and to be properly sympathetic. I was angry with myself and ignorant of the cause of my anger.

"Never mind about them," I said, abruptly. "There is something else--more important--Mrs. Fortress."

"Yes."

"I want to see that photograph--the photograph of the man whom she called Philip Maltabar."

She shook her head. Was it my fancy, or was she indeed a shade paler?

"Don't ask me that," she said, slowly. "I would rather not show it to any one."

"But I have asked you, and I ask again!" I exclaimed. "There are already too many things around me which I do not understand. I am not a child, and I am weary of all this mystery. I insist upon seeing that photograph."

She laid her hands upon my shoulders, and looked up into my face.

"Child," she said, slowly, "it were better for you not to see that photograph. Can't you believe me when I tell you so. It will be better for you and better for all of us. Don't ask me to show it to you."

"I would take you at your word," I answered, "only I have already some idea. I caught a fugitive glimpse of it just now, before you touched the spring. To know even the worst is better than to be continually dreading it."

She crossed the room in silence, and bending over the cabinet touched the spring. The picture smiled out upon me. It was the likeness of a young man--gay, supercilious, debonair--yet I knew it--knew it at once. The forehead and the mouth, even the pose of the head was unchanged. It was my father.

"He called himself once, then, Philip Maltabar?" I cried, hoa.r.s.ely.

She nodded.