"Yes," assented Derrick, "and my mother, too. They must have been fairly
well off--not poor, I mean--for they left me, or, rather, the people in
whose charge they placed me, sufficient money to bring me up and educate
me, and enable me to gain a profession."

A shaded lamp stood on a table at the side of Donna Elvira's chair. As
if she found the light oppressive, she moved the lamp farther back, so
that her face was completely in the shade.

"You lived in England; you were brought up there?" she said, still in
the same impassive voice.

"Yes," said Derrick. "I lived in London, with my guardian--with the
people who took care of me--until they died. Then I went to a place in
the country, a quiet place where I could study with less interruption
than one gets in London."

"You were all alone--I mean, you had no relatives?" asked Donna Elvira.

"No," said Derrick, gravely; and, after a pause, he added: "You will
think this strange, too, senora--I know nothing, literally nothing, of
my family. It is just possible that I have no relations. There are such
cases. Anyway, though of course I asked the usual questions of my
guardians, they could, or would, tell me nothing. Perhaps they didn't
know. All I could learn was that they had known my mother quite
slightly--and that they had been much surprised when I was brought to
them with the request that they would adopt me."

"Do you desire to tell me, senor, why you left England?" asked Donna
Elvira.

"Yes; I want to," said Derrick, after a moment or two's silence. "I feel
as if I wanted to confide in someone. Perhaps it's because you've been
so kind to me, have--well, taken me on trust. But I'm afraid I can't
tell you, senora. You see, other persons are mixed up with the affair.
Let it go at this--I beg your pardon, I mean I hope you will be
satisfied if I confine myself to saying that I got into trouble over
there in England."

"Trouble?" She knitted her brows. "You mean--what do you mean?"

"There you are!" said Derrick, with a shrug of despair. "I was accused
of--well, something that I didn't do, but to which I couldn't plead
innocence."

Donna Elvira regarded him closely.

"You shall tell me no more," she said, "but this: You have no other name
than the one you have given me?"

Derrick's thoughts had wandered to the little room at Brown's Buildings,
and he answered, absently:--

"No; just Derrick Dene."

The stately figure leant forward swiftly, almost as if it