"I recognized her and told her. There was no other course. We met in the secret chamber, whither she had come to make her own terrible investigations; and the sight of her there, on the spot where she had left the innocent to die, was too much for my sense of justice. I accused her to her face, and she crouched before me as under the lash. There was no possibility of denial after that, and she now lies—"
"Wait!" he cried, catching me painfully by the arm. "When was this day? To-day—to-night?"
"Not two hours ago."
His brow took on a look of awe.
"You see," he murmured, "she has power over me yet. When her hope broke, something snapped within me here. I abhor her, but I feel her grief. She was once all the world to me."
I recognized his right to emotion, and did not profane it by any words of mine. Instead of that I sought to leave him, but he would not let me go till he had asked me another question.
"And the daughter?" he urged. "Does she know of the opprobrium which must fall upon her head?"
"She sleeps," I replied, "with a smile of the shyest delight upon her lips. Her lover has followed her to this place, and the last words she heard to-night were those of his devotion. Her suffering must come to-morrow; yet it will be mitigated, for he will not forsake her, whatever shame may follow his loyalty. I have his word for that."
"Then the earth holds two lovers," was Mark Felt's rejoinder. "I thought it held but one." And with a sigh he let go my arm and turned to the window, with its background of driving rain and pitiless flashes of lightning.
I took the opportunity to excuse myself for a few minutes, and hurrying again into the hall, hastened, with nervous fear and an agitation greatly heightened by the unexpected interview I had just been through, to the now oft-opened door leading into the oak parlor.