“Do what?” he asked stupidly.

The delicious softness went out of the slim little body on his knees.  It grew rigid.  He looked hopelessly into the fire, but he could feel the burning inquiry in the girl’s eyes.  He sensed a swift change passing through her.  She seemed scarcely to breathe, and he knew that his answer had been more than inadequate.  It either confessed or feigned an ignorance of something which it would have been impossible for him to forget had he been Conniston.  He looked up at her at last.  The joyous flush had gone out of her face.  It was a little drawn.  Her hand, which had been snuggling his neck caressingly, slipped down from his shoulder.

“I guess—­you’d rather I hadn’t come, Derry,” she said, fighting to keep a break out of her voice.  “And I’ll go back, if you want to send me.  But I’ve always dreamed of your promise, that some day you’d send for me or come and get me, and I’d like to know why before you tell me to go.  Why have you hidden away from me all these years, leaving me among those who you knew hated me as they hated you?  Was it because you didn’t care?  Or was it because—­because—­” She bent her head and whispered strangely, “Was it because you were afraid?”

“Afraid?” he repeated slowly, staring again into the fire.  “Afraid—­” He was going to add “Of what?” but caught the words and held them back.

The birch fire leaped up with a sudden roar into the chimney, and from the heart of the flame he caught again that strange and all-pervading thrill, the sensation of Derwent Conniston’s presence very near to him.  It seemed to him that for an instant he caught a flash of Conniston’s face, and somewhere within him was a whispering which was Conniston’s voice.  He was possessed by a weird and masterful force that swept over him and conquered him, a thing that was more than intuition and greater than physical desire.  It was inspiration.  He knew that the Englishman would have him play the game as he was about to play it now.

The girl was waiting for him to answer.  Her lips had grown a little more tense.  His hesitation, the restraint in his welcome of her, and his apparent desire to evade that mysterious something which seemed to mean so much to her had brought a shining pain into her eyes.  He had seen such a look in the eyes of creatures physically hurt.  He reached out with his hands and brushed back the thick, soft hair from about her face.  His fingers buried themselves in the silken disarray, and he looked for a moment straight into her eyes before he spoke.

“Little girl, will you tell me the truth?” he asked.  “Do I look like the old Derwent Conniston, your Derwent Conniston?  Do I?”

Her voice was small and troubled, yet the pain was slowly fading out of her eyes as she felt the passionate embrace of his fingers in her hair.  “No.  You are changed.”

“Yes, I am changed.  A part of Derwent Conniston died seven years ago.  That part of him was dead until he came through that door tonight and saw you.  And then it flickered back into life.  It is returning slowly, slowly.  That which was dead is beginning to rouse itself, beginning to remember.  See, little Mary Josephine.  It was this!”