“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 space 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, passionately. “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.”