He never forgot the regal grace with which she drew her slight frame to its utmost height, the anger, the haughty pride that flashed from her eyes. "I do not understand you," she replied; "and I repeat my question; when I gave orders that I should be denied to all visitors, how dare you enter here?" "It is late, Lady Doris," he said, "too late for that kind of thing now, I repeat that I know you--to the rest of the world you may be Lady Doris Studleigh, to me you are simply the girl who lived with me and ran away from me." She looked at him; if a glance from those proud eyes could have slain him, he would have lain that instant dead at her feet. He continued: "You may deny it, you may continue to carry on the same concealment, the same deceit, but it will be all in vain; I know you, and I know you for what you are. You can say anything you please, if you think it advisable to waste words; I repeat that it will be in vain." She grew white, even to the lips, as she listened to the insolent words. "I felt sure--convinced of your identity from the very moment I saw you at the opera," he continued. "I watched you then; I have watched you ever since." Her white lips opened, but all sound died away from them--he heard nothing. "I have admired your talent for acting," he continued; "it is a grand one. It is ten thousand pities that you are not upon the stage; you would be its brightest ornament. I was not wholly, but half deceived, by your superb nonchalance; then I determined to find out the truth for myself. I have done so." He waited to see if she would utter one word of denial, one word of explanation. She stood before him--pale, beautiful, silent as a marble statue. "I have tracked you," he said, triumphantly. "I can tell you the whole story of your life; how you lived as a child at Brackenside; how you carried on a pretty little love affair with your poet and gentleman, until I saw you; how you went to Florence with me, in total ignorance of your true origin; how on the morning I left you by the river side, some one came from England, told you the true story of your birth, and brought you back here. I have been to Brackenside; I am not speaking without proof." If she could have spoken, she would have told him that no one at Brackenside would ever betray her; she would have liked to cast his words back in his teeth, but the strength to speak was no longer hers. "You thought then of being very clever. If you had never heard the true story of your birth, you would have been content to abide with me all the days of your life--you would have thought your lot a brilliant one. But you were too clever, Dora; you thought to escape and to live as though you had never heard of me. It could not be done. Did you speak?" He might as well ask the question, for a sound that resembled no ordinary, no human sound, came from her lips. He went on: