“That she may send for a detective on her own account. Anything rather than that! The girl alone I think we might deal with.” “Mr. Deville must use all his influence. He must persuade her not to,” I declared. She assented. “He will try. Yet for all her folly, so far as Bruce is concerned, she is not a perfect idiot. She knows that he is my friend--and yours--and she is desperately jealous. She will suspect his advice. She will not accept his bidding blindly. She is cunning. She will agree with him, and yet she will have her own way.” “He must be very firm,” I said. “There must be no detective come here. It would be the last straw. As it is, the anxiety is terrible enough.” We were silent, and we exchanged quick and furtive glances. Something in her sad face moved me almost to tears--it was strangely soft, so full of subtle and deep sympathy. Involuntarily I leaned across and held out my hands to her. She caught them in hers with a little passionate gesture. That moment brought us into a new connection. Henceforth we were on a different footing. “My child!” she moaned. “My poor child! You have a terrible burden upon your young shoulders.” “The burden I could bear,” I answered, “if only I had some knowledge of its meaning. You know, you could tell me if you would.” I crossed to her side and fell upon my knees, taking her hand in mine. She looked away into the fire and her face was as white as death. “I cannot,” she faltered, with trembling lips. “I cannot! Don’t ask me!” “Oh! but I must!” I cried, passionately. “It cannot hurt me so much to know as it does not to know. There is a secret between you and my father. You knew him as Philip Maltabar. Tell me what manner of man he was. Tell me why he has changed his name. Tell me what there was between him and----” She had risen to her feet at my first words. She sat down again, now trembling in every limb. “I cannot tell you any of these things,” she moaned. “I am sorry I asked you to come. Go away! Please go away!” But my mind was made up now, and the sight of her weakness only nerved me on. I stood up before her white and determined--brutally reckless as to her sufferings. I would know now, though I forced the words from between her white lips. She was a strong woman, but she had broken down--she was at my mercy. “I will not go away,” I said, doggedly. “You sent for me, and I am here. I will not go away until you have told me everything. I have a right to know, and I will know! You shall tell me!” She threw her arms out towards me with a gesture half pathetic, half imploring. But I made no movement--my face was hard, and I had set my teeth together. Her hands fell into her lap. I did not touch them. She looked moodily into the fire. She sat there with fixed eyes, like a woman who sees a little drama in the red coals. My heart beat fast with excitement. I knew that in the war of our wills I had conquered. She was at my mercy. I was going to hear.