And then, with a low cry of amazement and horror, he stopped short, staggered back a pace or two, and stood gazing helplessly at his visitor.
For the latter, as soon as he heard the door close, had risen and wheeled round rapidly to face the other. Now, as he stood there, the light full upon him, the saturnine features wreathed into a smile that was more than half a sneer; the look of triumphant malice upon that dark countenance was positively satanic.
“The name on the card was Fordham,” said Sir Francis, vacantly. “I recognised it as that of my son’s friend. What does it all mean?”
“It means this, Francis Orlebar. Your son’s friend of to-day, hight Fordham, is the same individual as your friend of years ago, hight Garcia. Are you beginning to see?”
The question was scarcely needed. As the whole truth burst in upon him that this man, whose ruthless hate he had incurred—not wrongfully either—long years ago, had been his son’s confidant and constant travelling companion now, the look of horror and repulsion upon the baronet’s countenance was in itself sufficient answer.
“You do!” went on the other. “Quite so—I knew you would. And now you are wondering what on earth was my object in constituting myself guide, philosopher, and friend to your son, for no man can be more certain than yourself that that object was not likely to be to Philip’s advantage. Do you follow me?”
“I do. But Garcia, though I wronged you—wronged you unpardonably, I admit—years ago, you would surely not extend your rancour, just as that may be as regards myself—your revengeful bitterness—to an innocent boy—one who is incapable of harming anybody. Surely even you would stop short at this. We are both comparatively near the end of our lives—his is all before him. Surely even you would shrink from doing anything to poison that life.”
“Did you shrink from poisoning mine, Francis Orlebar? Still, upon my soul, I believe you were more sinned against than sinning. I almost think, if it concerned you alone, I would have let it pass. But in striking you I shall equally well strike her—that she-devil. I had almost decided to bury the whole affair, but I could not let her escape. She should supply the weapon—the weapon I wanted. I forced her to be the instrument of revenge upon herself equally as upon you. That sort of revenge was too appetising, too wholly unique, to be thrown away.”
Never a strong man at any time, when he was unnerved Sir Francis was as weak as water. He was now thoroughly unnerved. His face was as white as death and his voice shook.
“Man—man!” he gasped, “what are you driving at? What have you done? Speak out—or are you too great a coward?”