“The manager of this hotel,” she began, with a foreigner’s precision of English, “has just told me that you were at present occupying my rooms at his invitation, but that you wished to see me at once on my return, and I believe that I was not wrong in apprehending that you preferred to hear my wishes from my own lips rather than from an innkeeper.  I had intended to keep these rooms for some weeks, but, unfortunately for me, though fortunately for you, the present terrible financial crisis, which has most unjustly brought my son into such scandalous prominence, will oblige me to return to San Francisco until his reputation is fully cleared of these foul aspersions.  I shall only ask you to allow me the undisturbed possession of these rooms for a couple of hours until I can pack my trunks and gather up a few souvenirs that I almost always keep with me.”

“Pray, consider that your wishes are my own in respect to that, my dear madam,” returned Demorest gravely, “and that, indeed, I protested against even this temporary intrusion upon your apartments; but I confess that now that you have spoken of your souvenirs I have the greatest curiosity about one of them, and that even my object in seeking this interview was to gratify it.  It is in regard to a photograph which I saw on the chimney-piece in your bedroom, which I think I recognized as that of some one whom I formerly knew.”

There was a sudden look of sharp suspicion and even hard aggressiveness that quite changed the lady’s face as he mentioned the word “souvenir,” but it quickly changed to a smile as she put up her fan with a gesture of arch deprecation, and said: 

“Ah!  I see.  Of course, a lady’s photograph.”

The reply irritated Demorest.  More than that, he felt a sudden sense of the absolute sentimentality of his request, and the consciousness that he was about to invite the familiar confidence of this strange woman—­whose son had forged his name—­in regard to her!

“It was a Venetian picture,” he began, and stopped, a singular disgust keeping him from voicing the name.

But Mrs. Van Loo was less reticent.  “Oh, you mean my dearest friend—­a lovely picture, and you know her?  Why, yes, surely.  You are the Mr. Demorest who—­Of course, that old love-affair.  Well, you are a marvel!  Five years ago, at least, and you have not forgotten!  I really must write and tell her.”

“Write and tell her!” Then it was all a lie about her death!  He felt not only his faith, his hope, his future leaving him, but even his self-control.  With an effort he said.—­

“I think you have already satisfied my curiosity.  I was told five years ago that she was dead.  It was because of the date of the photograph—­two years later—­that I ventured to intrude upon you.  I was anxious only to know the truth.”