"Why did I not guess at once that he was my father? I cannot tell. And not having guessed it at once, why should I ever have guessed it? I cannot tell. The suspicion stole over me gradually. Let me say that I always was conscious of a peculiar feeling towards Sir Cyril Smart, partly antagonistic, yet not wholly so--a feeling I could never understand. Then suddenly I knew, beyond any shadow of doubt, that Sir Cyril was my father, and in the same moment he knew that I was his daughter. You were there; you saw us in the portico of the reception-rooms at that London hotel. I caught him staring at the dagger in my hair just as if he was staring at a snake--I had not worn it for some time--and the knowledge of his identity swept over me like a--like a big wave. I hated him more than ever. "That night, it seems, he followed us in his carriage to Alresca's flat. When I came out of the flat he was waiting. He spoke. I won't tell you what he said, and I won't tell you what I said. But I was very curt and very cruel." Her voice trembled. "I got into my carriage. My God! how cruel I was! To-night he--my father--has told me that he tried to kill himself with my mother's dagger, there on the pavement. I had driven him to suicide." She stopped. "Do you blame me?" she murmured. "I do not blame you," I said. "But he is dead, and death ends all things." "You are right," she said. "And he loved me at the last. I know that. And he saved my life--you and he. He has atoned--atoned for his conduct to my poor mother. He died with my kiss on his lips." And now the tears came into my eyes. "Ah!" she exclaimed, and the pathos of her ringing tones was intolerable to me. "You may well weep for me." Then with abrupt change she laughed. "Don't you agree that I am cursed? Am I not cursed? Say it! say it!" "I will not say it," I answered. "Why should you be cursed? What do you mean?" "I do not know what I mean, but I know what I feel. Look back at my life. My mother died, deserted. My father has died, killed by a mad woman. My dear friend Alresca died--who knows how? Clarenceux--he too died." "Stay!" I almost shouted, springing up, and the suddenness of my excitement intimidated her. "How do you know that Lord Clarenceux is dead?" I stood before her, trembling with apprehension for the effect of the disclosure I was about to make. She was puzzled and alarmed by the violent change in me, but she controlled herself. "How do I know?" she repeated with strange mildness. "Yes, how do you know? Did you see him die?" I had a wild desire to glance over my shoulder at the portrait. "No, my friend. But I saw him after he was dead. He died suddenly in Vienna. Don't let us talk about that."