“Captain Alvarez,” interrupts the count, frigidly, “you made a distinct accusation against the character of the lady whom I have honored with an offer of my hand. I demand that you retract your statement and apologize for its utterance, or prove its truth.”
“I am willing to recall my hasty words, count.”
“Then you lied?”
There is a short but eloquent silence. “Very well,” says Alvarez. “I perceive that you are determined to be wholly undeceived as to the imposition which has been put upon you. Know then that the wealthy American widow, Isabel Harding, is neither wealthy nor a widow.”
“Not a widow?” repeats Count Gonzaga. “Caramba! What, then, is she?”
“What you will,” replies Alvarez, indifferently. “What usually is an adventuress?”
“But the proof? Dios! The proof?” demands the count. Perchance Alvarez is lying to him.
A low, unpleasant laugh from the latter. “I had the honor of being at one time the very good friend of madam,” he says.
“Scoundrel!” grits Ashley in Mrs. Harding’s ear. The critical moment is at hand. “Victory!” murmurs Jack, as Mrs. Harding, who has risen and is twisting her lace handkerchief into shreds, gasps once or twice as Alvarez finishes his brutal story, and then faints in Ashley’s arms.
“El Diablo!” the latter hears the count ejaculate, and with the mortification in his voice is mingled much of mental relief.