FLINT TO STEEL.
There was a long moment of silence, and then Alan Warburton spoke.
"Much as I desire to hear that sentence completed, Mrs. Warburton, I
could do no less than interrupt."
Leslie dropped Winnie's hand and rose slowly, moving with a stately
grace toward the entrance before which Alan stood. And Winnie, with a
wrathful glance at the intruder, flung aside a handful of loose leaves
with an impatient motion, and followed her friend.
But Alan, making no effort to conceal his hostile feelings, still stood
before the entrance, and again addressed Leslie.
"May I detain you for a moment, Mrs. Warburton?"
Leslie paused before him with a face as haughty as his own, and bowed
her assent. Then she drew back and looked at Winnie, who, with a gesture
meant to be imperious, commanded Alan to stand aside.
"Will you remain, Miss French?" asked Alan, but moving aside with a
courtly bow.
"No; I won't," retorted the irate little lady. "I don't like the change
of climate. I'm going up stairs for my furs and a foot-warmer--ugh!"
And casting upon him a final glance of scorn, she dashed aside the
curtains, and they heard the door of the library close sharply behind
her.
For a moment they regarded each other silently. Since the night of that
fateful masquerade they had not exchanged words, except such
commonplaces as were made necessary by the presence of a third person.
Now they were both prepared for a final reckoning: he with stern resolve
stamped upon every feature; she with desperate defiance in look and
manner.
"I think," she said, with a movement toward the _portierie_, "that our
conversation had better be continued there."
He bowed a stately assent, and held back the curtains while she passed
into the library.
She crossed the room with slow, graceful movements, and pausing before
the hearth, turned her face toward him.
Feeling to her heart's core the humiliation brought by the knowledge
that this man, her accuser, had fathomed the secret of her past love for
him; with the thought of the Francoises' threat ever before her--Leslie
Warburton stood there hopeless, desolate, desperate. She had ceased to
struggle with her fate. She had resolved to meet the worst, and to brave
it. She was the woman without hope, but she was every inch a queen, her
head haughtily poised, her face once more frozen into pallid
tranquility.
Standing thus, she was calm, believing that she had drained her bitter
cup to its very dregs; that Fate could have no more poisoned arrows in
store for her.
Ah, if she had known that her bitterest draught was yet to be quaffed;
that the deadliest wound was yet to be inflicted!
She made no effort to break the silence that fell between them; she
would not aid him by a word.
Comprehending this, after a moment of waiting, he said:
"Madam, believe me, I have no desire to do you an injustice. I have
purposely avoided this interview, wishing, while my dead brother
remained among us, to spare you for his sake. Now, however, it is my
duty to fathom the mystery in which you have chosen to envelop yourself.
What have you to say?"
"That, knowing his duty so well, Mr. Alan Warburton will do it,
undoubtedly." And she bowed with ironical courtesy.
"And you still persist in your refusal to explain?"
"On the contrary, I am quite at your service."
She smiled as she said these words. At least she could humble the pride
of this superior being, and she would have this small morsel of revenge.
Her answer astonished him. His surprise was manifest. And she favored
him with a frosty smile as she asked:
"What is it that my brother-in-law desires to know?"
"The truth," he replied sternly. "What took you to that vile den on the
night of your masquerade? Are those Francoises the people you have so
frequently visited by stealth? Are they your clandestine
correspondents?"
"Your questions come too fast," she retorted calmly. "I will reverse
the order of my answers. The Francoises _are_ my clandestine
correspondents. My visits by stealth, have all been paid to them. It was
a threat that took me there that eventful night."
"A threat?"
"Yes."
"Then you are in their power?"
"I was."
"And their sway has ceased?"
"It has ceased."
"Since when?"
"Since the receipt of this."
She took from her pocket the crumpled note, and held it out to him.
He read it with his face blanching.
"Then it was _you_!" he gasped, with a recoil of horror.
"It was a blow in my defence," she said, with a glance full of meaning.
"It would not become me to save myself at the expense of the one who
dealt it."
His eyes flashed, but she looked at him steadily. "Do you _know_ who
struck that blow?" he asked.
"To tell you would not add to your store of knowledge," she retorted.
"Have you more to say, Mr. Warburton?"
"More? yes. Who are these Francoises? What are they to you?"
Her answer came with slow deliberation. "They call themselves my father
and mother."
"My God!"
"It is true. I was adopted by the Ulimans. My husband and Mr.
Follingsbee were aware of this. It seems that I was given to the Ulimans
by these people."
She had aimed this blow at his pride, but that pride was swallowed up by
his consternation. As she watched his countenance, the surprise changed
to incredulity, the incredulity to contempt. Then he said, dryly:
"Your story is excellent, but too improbable. Will you answer a few more
questions?"
"Ask them."
"On the night of the masquerade you received here, in your husband's
house, by appointment, a man disguised in woman's apparel."
"Well?"
"You admit it? Do you know how I effected my escape that night?"
"I do. A brave man came to your rescue."
"Precisely; and this 'brave man', is the same who was present at the
masquerade; is it not so?"
"It is."
"Who is this man?"
"I decline to answer."
"What is he to you, then?"
"What he is to all who know him: a brave, true man; a gentleman."
"Hem! You have an exalted opinion of this--this _gentleman_."
"And so should you have, since he saved your life, and what you value
more, your reputation. And now listen: this same man has bidden me tell
you, has bidden me warn you, that dangers surround you on every hand;
that Van Vernet has traced the resemblance between you and the Sailor of
that night; that he will hunt you down if possible. Your safety depends
upon your success in baffling his efforts to identify you with that
Sailor."
"Your _friend_ is very thoughtful," he sneered.
She turned toward the door with an air of weariness.
"This is our last interview," she said coldly; "have you more to say?"
He made a quick stride toward the door, and placing himself before it,
let his enforced calmness fall from him like a mantle of snow from a
statue of fire, with all his hatred and disgust concentrated in the low,
metallic tones in which he addressed her.
"I have only this to say: Your plans, which as yet I only half
comprehend, will fail utterly. You fancy, perhaps, that this snare, into
which I have fallen, will fetter my hands and prevent me from undoing
your work. I cannot give life to the victim whose death lies at your
door, the husband who was slain by your sin, but I can rescue your later
victim, if her life, too, has not been sacrificed. As for these two
wretches, whose parental claim is a figment of your own imagination, and
this _lover_, who is the abettor, possibly the instigator, of your
crimes, I shall find him out--"
"Stop," she cried wildly, "I command you, _stop_!"
"Ah, that touches you! I repeat, I shall find him out. To succeed, you
should have concealed his existence as effectually as you have concealed
poor little Daisy."
A death-like pallor overspreads the face of the woman before him. She
stretches out her arms imploringly, her form sways as if she were about
to fall, and she utters a wailing cry.
"As _I_ have concealed Daisy? Oh, my God; my God! I see! I understand!
My weakness, my folly, has done its work. I _have_ killed my husband! I
_have_ brought a curse upon little Daisy! I _have_ endangered your life
and honor! _I_ conceal our Daisy? Hear me, Heaven; henceforth I am
nameless, homeless, friendless, until I have found Daisy Warburton and
restored her to you!"
Her voice died in a low wail. She makes a forward movement, and then
falls headlong at the feet of her stern accuser. For the second time in
all her life, Leslie Warburton has fainted.
One moment Alan Warburton stands looking down upon her, a cynical half
smile upon his lips. Then he turns and pulls the bell.
"Mrs. Warburton is in a swoon," he says to the servant who appears.
"Call some one to her assistance."
And without once glancing backward, he strides from the library.