I was, however, relieved as well as startled. Those words spoken so lightly by Reva in regard to the expected arrival of my mother and sister, or, rather, as I thought to myself with dismay, the mother and sister of Ismar Thiusen, had given me the feeling of an impostor on the eve of exposure. Yet I could see no way of retreat from my strange position. With a sort of fatalistic recklessness I had resolved to abide the issue of events, with much the same confidence that all would turn out right in the end that we feel in regard to the hero or heroine of a story, however inextricable, to all appearance, the difficulties in which he or she may be involved.
Here, then, was the unlooked-for solution. This devoted and beloved mother would, perhaps, give me the clew to the issue from this labyrinth. But what if she and my sister should take the same view of things as Utis. Would I be obliged, for the sake of her peace of mind, to pretend a belief in what my entire memory of the past forbade me to believe? All this passed through my mind as in a flash. Seeing no solution to the new and difficult questions now presenting themselves, I tried to dismiss the subject by asking to see the portrait of my sister Maud.
This, too, was of startling fidelity; though I have no doubt that Maud herself, dear girl, would acknowledge that in no other had she been represented to better advantage. With a lingering trace of incredulity, I examined the backs of the pictures. I found the names Osna Diotha and Madene Diotha, written there apparently by the hand of the artist, evidently a lady. The printed address was a street of a, to me unknown, city situated some-
