“I!” echoed Sir Francis, wonderingly. “Who, then, is her father?”
Fordham gazed full at him for a moment. Then his lips framed in a whisper one single word. And, hearing it, Sir Francis dropped back into his chair, his eyes staring, his face white as with the dews of death, shaking in every limb.
“Look well at the date of this,” pursued his relentless tormentor, holding out the telegram. “September 22nd. And this is the twenty-third. They have been married more than twenty-four hours. By the time you can communicate with them it will be forty-eight.”
But the unhappy man could articulate no word. The faculty of speech seemed to have left him. He saw it all now—saw the whole plot in all its diabolical horror.
“I told you once that my vengeance would follow you to the very grave,” went on Fordham. “Did you think because it had slept for years that therefore it was dead? Now you had better wire for Philip the first thing in the morning, for it will be too late to-night. And when he comes give him this. It will save you the trouble of explaining.”
He threw down what looked like a bulky letter carefully sealed and directed. Mechanically Sir Francis clutched it, but of any further reply he seemed incapable. Had his reason given way beneath the shock? It almost looked like it. Then with one more glance at his stricken enemy—a glance burning with hate, and long cherished rancour, and sated vengeance—Fordham left the room—and the house.