“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 hoarsely, 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. “God 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?”