"You--did you ever visit her?--stay at the Varians' house?" "Yes." "In--in her own home in Westchester?" "Yes." There was a silence; his eyes shifted to his plate; remained fixed as he said: "Then you knew her--father?" "Yes, Phil," she said quietly, "I knew Mr. Varian." "Was there anything--anything unusual--about him--in those days?" "Have you heard that for the first time?" asked his sister. He looked up: "Yes. What was it, Nina?" She became busy with her plate for a while; he sat rigid, patient, one hand resting on his claret-glass. And presently she said without meeting his eyes: "It was even farther back--her grandparents--one of them--" She lifted her head slowly--"That is why it so deeply concerned us, Phil, when we heard of your marriage." "What concerned you?" "The chance of inheritance--the risk of the taint--of transmitting it. Her father's erratic brilliancy became more than eccentricity before I knew him. I would have told you that had I dreamed that you ever could have thought of marrying Alixe Varian. But how could I know you would meet her out there in the Orient! It was--your cable to us was like a thunderbolt. . . . And when she--she left you so suddenly--Phil, dear--I _feared_ the true reason--the only possible reason that could be responsible for such an insane act." "What was the truth about her father?" he said doggedly. "He was eccentric; was he ever worse than that?" "The truth was that he became mentally irresponsible before his death." "You _know_ this?" "Alixe told me when we were schoolgirls. And for days she was haunted with the fear of what might one day be her inheritance. That is all I know, Phil." He nodded and for a while made some pretence of eating, but presently leaned back and looked at his sister out of dazed eyes. "Do you suppose," he said heavily, "that _she_ was not entirely responsible when--when she went away?" "I have wondered," said Nina simply. "Austin believes it." "But--but--how in God's name could that be possible? She was so brilliant--so witty, so charmingly and capriciously normal--" "Her father was brilliant and popular--when he was young. Austin knew him, Phil. I have often, often wondered whether Alixe realises what she is about. Her restless impulses, her intervals of curious resentment--so many things which I remember and which, now, I cannot believe were entirely normal. . . . It is a dreadful surmise to make about anybody so youthful, so pretty, so lovable--and yet, it is the kindest way to account for her strange treatment of you--" "I can't believe it," he said, staring at vacancy. "I refuse to." And, thinking of her last frightened and excited letter imploring an interview with him and giving the startling reason: "What a scoundrel that fellow Ruthven is," he said with a shudder. "Why, what has he--" "Nothing. I can't discuss it, Nina--" "Please tell me, Phil!" "There is nothing to tell."