"_Married this morning to Laura Daventer. Congratulate me, old chap.
Phil_."
"Is this a practical joke of yours?" gasped the baronet at length, as
soon as he could find words.
"By no means. It is just as I received it. Look at the date of the
office stamp--the 22nd. It was yesterday the affair came off. I only
returned this morning from a few days' absence, and found the wire
awaiting me in my quarters. Yet it is news to you. Very inconsiderate
on Phil's part, I must say. He might have let you know."
"Who--what--are these people--these Daventers?"
"Well, the young lady is his social equal, at all events, as you will
probably be the first to admit," answered Fordham, the cruel sneer
deepening on his countenance. All the satanic ruthlessness of his
implacable rancour had returned. He was pouring out the very life blood
of his enemy now. All thoughts of pity, of compunction, had passed
away.
"On her mother's side the girl is undoubtedly his social equal," he
continued. "On that of her father--well, you must be the best judge."
"I!" echoed Sir Francis, wonderingly. "Who, then, is her father?"
Fordham gazed full at him for a moment. Then his lips framed in a
whisper one single word. And, hearing it, Sir Francis dropped back into
his chair, his eyes staring, his face white as with the dews of death,
shaking in every limb.
"Look well at the date of this," pursued his relentless tormentor,
holding out the telegram. "September 22nd. And this is the
twenty-third. They have been married more than twenty-four hours. By
the time you can communicate with them it will be forty-eight."
But the unhappy man could articulate no word. The faculty of speech
seemed to have left him. He saw it all now--saw the whole plot in all
its diabolical horror.
"I told you once that my vengeance would follow you to the very grave,"
went on Fordham. "Did you think because it had slept for years that
therefore it was dead? Now you had better wire for Philip the first
thing in the morning, for it will be too late to-night. And when he
comes give him this. It will save you the trouble of explaining."
He threw down what looked like a bulky letter carefully sealed and
directed. Mechanically Sir Francis clutched it, but of any further
reply he seemed incapable. Had his reason given way beneath the shock?
It almost looked like it. Then with one more glance at his stricken
enemy--a glance burning with hate, and long cherished rancour, and sated
vengeance--Fordham left the room--and the house.