TELLS OF FLOCKART'S TRIUMPH
"What are you doing here at this hour?" Gabrielle's father demanded
slowly, releasing her hand. "Why are you prying into my affairs?" He had
not detected Flockart's presence, and believed himself alone with his
daughter.
The man's glance again met Gabrielle's, and she saw in his eyes a
desperate look. To tell the truth would, she knew, alas! cause the
exposure of her secret and her disgrace. On both sides had she suddenly
become hemmed in by a deadly peril.
"Dad," she cried suddenly, "do I not know all about your affairs
already? Do I not act as your secretary? With what motive should I open
your safe?"
Without response, the blind man moved back to the open door, and,
placing his hand within, fingered one of the long iron drawers. It was
unlocked, and he drew it forth. Some papers were within--blue,
legal-looking papers which his daughter had never seen. "Yes," he
exclaimed aloud, "just as I thought. This drawer has been opened, and my
private affairs pried into. Tell me, Gabrielle, where is young Murie
just at present?"
"In Paris, I believe. He left London unexpectedly three days ago."
"Paris!" echoed the old man. "Ah," he added, "Goslin was right--quite
right. And so you, my daughter, in whom I placed all my trust--my--my
only friend--have betrayed me!" he added brokenly.
"I have not betrayed you, dear father," was her quick protest. "To whom
do you allege I have exposed your affairs?"
"To your lover, Walter."
To Flockart, whose wits were already at work upon some scheme to
extricate himself, there came at that instant a sudden suggestion. He
spoke, causing the old man to start suddenly and turn in the direction
of the speaker.
As the words left his lips he raised a threatening finger towards
Gabrielle, a sign of silence to her of which the old man was
unfortunately in ignorance.
"I think, Sir Henry, that I ought to speak--to tell you the truth,
painful though it may be. Five minutes ago I came down here in order to
get a telegraph-form, as I wanted to send a wire at the earliest
possible moment to-morrow, when, to my surprise, I saw a light beneath
the door. I----"
"Oh, no, no!" gasped the girl, in horrified protest. "It's a lie!"
"I crept in quietly, and was very surprised to find Gabrielle with the
safe open, and alone. I had expected that she was sitting up late,
working with you. But she seemed to be examining and reading some papers
she took from a drawer. Forgive me for telling you this, but the truth
must now be made plain. I startled her by my sudden presence; and,
pointing out the dishonour of copying her father's papers, no matter for
what purpose, I compelled her to return the documents to their place. I
fold her frankly that it was my duty, as your friend, to inform you of
the incident; but she implored me, for the sake of her lover, to remain
silent."
"Mr. Flockart!" cried the girl, "how dare you say such a thing when you
know it to be an untruth; when----"
"Enough!" exclaimed her father bitterly. "I'm ashamed of you, Gabrielle.
I----"
"I would beg of you, Sir Henry, not further to distress yourself,"
Flockart interrupted. "Love, as you know, often prompts both men and
women to commit acts of supreme folly."
"Folly!" echoed the blind man. "This is more than folly! Gabrielle and
her lover have conspired to bring about my ruin. I have had suspicions
for several weeks; now, alas! they are confirmed. Walter Murie is in
Paris at this moment in order to make money out of the secret knowledge
which Gabrielle obtains for him. My own daughter is responsible for my
betrayal!" he added, in a voice broken by emotion.
"No, no, Sir Henry!" urged Flockart. "Surely the outlook is not so black
as you foresee. Gabrielle has acted injudiciously; but surely she is
still devoted to you and your interests."
"Yes," cried the girl in desperation, "you know I am, dad. You know that
I----"
"It is useless, Flockart, for you to endeavour to seek forgiveness for
Gabrielle," declared her father in a firm, harsh voice, "Quite useless.
She has even endeavoured to deny the statement you have made--tried to
deny it when I actually heard with my own ears her defiant declaration
that she was prepared to bear her shame and all its consequences! Let
her do so, I say. She shall leave Glencardine to-morrow, and have no
further opportunity to conspire against me."
"Oh, father, what are you saying?" she cried in despair, bursting into
tears. "I have not conspired."
"I am saying the truth," went on the blind man. "You and your lover have
formed another clever plot, eh? Because I have not sight to watch you,
you will copy my business reports and send them to Walter Murie, who
hopes to place them in a certain channel where he can receive payment.
This is not the first time my business has leaked out from this room.
Only a short time ago certain confidential documents were offered to the
Greek Government, but fortunately they were false ones prepared on
purpose to trick any one who had designs upon my business secrets."
"I swear I am in ignorance of it all."
"Well, I have now told you plainly," the old man said. "I loved you,
Gabrielle, and until this moment foolishly believed that you were
devoted to me and to my interests. I trusted you implicitly, but you
have betrayed me into the hands of my enemies--betrayed me," he wailed,
"in such a manner that only ruin may face me. I tell you the hard and
bitter truth. I am blind, and ever since your return from school you
have acted as my secretary, and I have looked at the world only through
your eyes. Ah," he sighed, "but I ought to have known! I should never
have trusted a woman, even though she be my own daughter."
The girl stood with her blanched face covered by her hands. To protest,
to declare that Flockart's story was a lie, was, she saw, all to no
purpose. Her father had overheard her bold defiance and had, alas! most
unfortunately taken it as an admission of her guilt.
Flockart stood motionless but watchful; yet by the few words he uttered
he succeeded in impressing the blind man with the genuineness of his
friendship both for father and for daughter. He urged forgiveness, but
Sir Henry disregarded all his appeals.
"No," he declared. "It is fortunate indeed, Flockart, that you made this
discovery, and thus placed me upon my guard." The poor deluded man
little dreamt that on the occasion when Flockart had taken him down the
drive to announce his departure from Glencardine on account of the
gossip, and had drawn Sir Henry's attention to his hanging watch-chain,
he had succeeded in cleverly obtaining two impressions of the safe-key
attached. In his excitement, it had never occurred to him to ask his
daughter by what means she had been able to open that steel door.
"Dad," she faltered, advancing towards him and placing her soft, tender
hand upon his shoulder, "won't you listen to reason? I assure you I am
quite innocent of any attempt or intention to betray you. I know you
have many enemies;" and she glanced quickly in Flockart's direction.
"Have we not often discussed them? Have I not kept eyes and ears open,
and told you of all I have seen and learnt? Have----"
"You have seen and learnt what is to my detriment," he answered. "All
argument is useless. A fortnight or so ago, by your aid, my enemies
secured a copy of a certain document which has never left yonder safe.
To-night Mr. Flockart has discovered you again tampering with my safe,
and with my own ears I heard you utter defiance. You are more devoted to
your lover than to me, and you are supplying him with copies of my
papers."
"That is untrue, dad," protested the girl reproachfully.
But her father shook her hand roughly from his shoulder, saying, "I have
already told you my decision, which is irrevocable. To-morrow you shall
leave Glencardine and go to your aunt Emily at Woodnewton. You won't
have much opportunity for mischief in that dull little Northampton
village. I won't allow you to remain under my roof any longer; you are
too ungrateful and deceitful, knowing as you do the misery of my
affliction."
"But, father----"
"Go to your room," he ordered sternly. "Tomorrow I will speak with your
mother, and we shall then decide what shall be done. Only, understand
one thing: in the future you are not my dear daughter that you have been
in the past. I--I have no daughter," he added in a voice harsh yet
broken by emotion, "for you have now proved yourself an enemy worse even
than those who for so many years have taken advantage of my
helplessness."
"Ah, dad, dad, you are cruel!" she cried, bursting again into a torrent
of tears. "You are too cruel! I have done nothing!"
"Do you call placing me in peril nothing?" he retorted bitterly. "Go to
your room at once. Remain with me, Flockart. I want to speak to you."
The girl saw herself convicted by those unfortunate words she had
used--words meant in defiance of her arch-enemy Flockart, but which had
placed her in ignominy and disgrace. Ah, if she could only stand firm
and speak the ghastly truth! But, alas! she dared not. Flockart, the man
who held her in his power, the man whom she knew to be her father's
bitterest opponent, a cheat and a fraud, stood there triumphant, with a
smile upon his lips; while she, pure, honest, and devoted to that
afflicted man, was denounced and outcast. She raised her voice in one
last word of faint protest.
But her father, angered and grieved, turned fiercely upon her and
ordered her from his presence. "Go," he said, "and do not come near me
again until your boxes are packed and you are ready to leave
Glencardine."
"You speak as though I were a servant whom you've discharged," she said
bitterly.
"I am speaking to my enemy, not to my daughter," was his hard response.
She raised her eyes to Flockart, and saw upon his dark face a hard,
sphinx-like look. What hope of salvation could she ever expect from that
man--the man who long ago had sought to estrange her from her father so
that he might work his own ends? It was upon her tongue to turn upon him
and relate the whole infamous truth. Yet so friendly had the two men
become of late that she feared, even if she did so, that her father
would only see in the revelation an attempt at reprisal. Besides, what
if Flockart spoke? What if he told the awful truth? Her own dear father,
whom she loved so well, even though he had misjudged her, would be
dragged into the mire. No, she was the victim of that man, who was a
past-master of the art of subterfuge; the man who, for years, had lived
by his wits and preyed upon society.
"Leave us, and go to your room," again commanded her father.
She looked sadly at the white, bespectacled countenance which she loved
so well. Her soft hand once more sought his; but he cast it from him,
saying, "Enough of your caresses! You are no longer my daughter! Leave
us!" And then, seeing all protest in vain, she sighed, turned very
slowly, and with a last, lingering look upon the helpless man to whom
she had been so devoted, and who now so grossly misjudged her, she
tottered out, closing the door behind her.
"Has she gone?" asked Sir Henry a moment later.
Flockart responded in the affirmative, laying his hand upon the shoulder
of his agitated host, and urging him to remain calm.
"That's all very well, my dear Flockart," he cried; "but you don't know
what she has done. She exposed a week or so ago a most confidential
arrangement with the Greek Government, a revelation which might have
involved me in the loss of over a hundred thousand."
"Then it's fortunate, perhaps, that I discovered her to-night," replied
his guest. "All this must be very painful to you, Sir Henry."
"Very. I shall not give her another opportunity to betray me, Flockart,
depend upon that," the elder man said. "My wife warned me against
Gabrielle long ago. I now see that I was a fool for not taking her
advice."
"Certainly it's a curious fact that Walter Murie is in Paris," remarked
the other. "Was the revelation of your financial dealings made in Paris,
do you know?"
"Yes, it was," snapped the blind man. "I believed Walter to be quite a
good young fellow."
"Ah, I knew different, Sir Henry. His life up in London was not--well,
not exactly all that it should be. He's in with a rather shady crowd."
"You never told me so."
"Because you did not believe me to be your friend until quite recently.
I hope I have now proved what I have asserted. If I can do anything to
assist you I am only too ready. I assure you that you have only to
command me."
Sir Henry reflected deeply for a few moments. The discovery that his
daughter was playing him false caused within him a sudden revulsion of
feeling. Unfortunately, he could not see the expression upon the
countenance of his false friend. He was wondering at that moment whether
he might entrust to him a somewhat delicate mission.
"Gabrielle shall not return here," her father said, as though speaking
to himself.
"That is a course which I would most strongly advise. Send the girl
away," urged the other. "Evidently she has grossly betrayed you."
"That I certainly intend doing," was the answer. "But I wonder,
Flockart, if I might take you at your word, and ask you to do me a
favour? I am so helpless, or I would not think of troubling you."
"Only tell me what you wish, and I will do it with pleasure."
"Very well, then," replied the blind man. "Perhaps I shall want you to
go to Paris at once, watch the actions of young Murie, and report to me
from time to time. Would you?"
A look of bright intelligence overspread the man's features as a new
vista opened before him. Sir Henry was about to take him into his
confidence! "Why, with pleasure," he said cheerily. "I'll start
to-morrow, and rest assured that I'll keep a very good eye upon the
young gentleman. You now know the painful truth concerning your
daughter--the truth which Lady Heyburn has told you so often, and which
you have never yet heeded."
"Yes, Flockart," answered the afflicted man, taking his guest's hand in
warm friendship. "I once disliked you--that I admit; but you were quite
frank the other day, and now to-night you have succeeded in making a
discovery that, though it has upset me terribly, may mean my salvation."