"The Yellow House?" he repeated, quickly. "What was she doing there? What did she want?"

"I don't know what excuse she made for calling," I answered. "She seems to be going round the neighborhood making inquiries for Philip Maltabar. She has quite made up her mind that he is the man who killed her brother. She says----"

"Yes----"

"That she is quite sure that he is here--somewhere--in hiding. She is like a ferret, she will not rest until she has found him."

He struck the bedclothes vigorously with his white, clenched hand.

"It is false! She will never find him. Philip Maltabar is dead."

"I wish that we could make her believe it," I answered. "But we cannot. We shall never be able to."

"Why not?"

"Because it is not true. Philip Maltabar is not dead. She knows it."

"What do you mean?" he said hoa.r.s.ely, raising himself from the pillows. "Who says that he is not dead? Who dares to say that Philip Maltabar still lives?"

"I do!" I answered, firmly. "It is you who have called yourself Philip Maltabar in days that have gone by. It is you for whom she is looking."

He did not attempt to deny it. I had spoken decisively, with the air of one who knows. He fell back and half closed his eyes. "Does she suspect it?" he whispered. "Is that why she waited? Is that why she came here?"

"I do not think so," I answered. "Yet she certainly does believe that Philip Maltabar is somewhere here in hiding. She suspects me more than any one."

"You!--how you?"

"She has an idea that he is a friend of mine--that I am shielding him and trying to keep you away from her, lest she should learn the truth from you. That is what she thinks at present."

"Cannot you persuade her that there is no such person round here as Philip Maltabar?" he murmured. "She can make her own inquiries, she can consult directories, the police, the residents. It ought not to be hard to convince her."

"It is impossible," I answered, shortly.

"Impossible! Why?"

"Because she has seen the photograph, in Adelaide Fortress's cabinet."

"What!"

The exclamation seemed to come from his parched, dry lips like a pistol shot. His burning eyes were fixed upon me incredulously. I repeated my words.

"She saw his photograph at the Yellow House. It was in the secret aperture of a cabinet. She touched the spring unwittingly, and it flew open."

My father turned over and groaned.

"When Fate works like this, the end is not far off," he cried, in a broken voice. "G.o.d help us!"

I fell on my knees by the bedside, and took one of his white hands in mine.

"Father," I said, "I have asked you many questions which you have not answered. This one you must answer. I will not live here any longer in ignorance of it. I am your daughter, and there are some things which I have a right to know. Tell me why this woman has your likeness?"

"My likeness!" he said fiercely. "Who dares say that it is my likeness?"

"It is your likeness, father," I answered. "I saw it, and there can be no mistake. She has admitted it, but she will tell me nothing."

He shook his head.

"It may happen that you will know some day," he answered, faintly, "but not from me--never from me."

I tightened my clasp upon his hands.

"Do not say that," I continued, firmly. "There is something binding you three together, yet keeping you all apart. You and Bruce Deville and Adelaide Fortress. What is it? A secret? Some common knowledge of an unhappy past? I alone am ignorant of it; I cannot bear it any longer. If you do not tell me what it is I must go away. I am not a child--I will know!"

He lay quite still and looked at me sorrowfully.

"There is a secret," he said, slowly, "but it is not mine to tell. Have patience, child, and some day you will understand. Only have patience."

"I have been patient long enough," I answered, bitterly. "I cannot be patient any longer. If I cannot be trusted with this secret now, I shall go away; Alice can take my place here. I have been at home so little, that you will not miss me. I will go back to Dresden. I have made up my mind."

He caught hold of my hands and held them with burning fingers.

"A little while," he pleaded, looking at me piteously. "Stay with me a little while longer. Very soon you may know, but not yet--not--yet----"

"Why not?"

"The secret is not mine alone. It is not for me to tell. Be patient, Kate! For G.o.d's sake, be patient!"

"I have been patient long enough," I murmured. "I shall go away. I can do no good here. I am not even trusted."

"A little longer," he pleaded. "Be patient a little longer. It is a terrible burden which has been placed on my shoulders. Help me to bear it. Stay with me."

"You have Alice----"

"Alice is good, but she is not strong. She is no help--and some day I may need help."

"I do not wish to leave you," I cried, with trembling lips. "I do not want to go away. I want to do all I can to help you--yet--imagine yourself in my place! I am groping about in the dark corners, I want the light."

He looked up at me with a faint, weary smile.

"Child," he said, "you are like your mother was. Won't you believe that I am helpless? If you really mean that you will leave me if I do not tell you, well, you must go. Even if you go straight to that woman and tell her all that you know--even then my lips are sealed. This secret is not mine to tell. When you do know, it will not be I who shall tell you. All I can say is, go if you must, but for G.o.d's sake stay!"

His face was ineffably piteous. I looked at his worn, anxious face, and my heart grew soft. A lump rose up in my throat, and my eyes were dim. I stooped down and kissed him.

"I will stay," I whispered. "I will not ask you any more questions, and I will not leave whilst you need me--whilst you are ill."

His lips touched mine, and a little sob was caught in his throat. I looked into his face through the mist of my blinding tears, and I wondered. The light on his features was almost spiritual.