“We had better not be interrupted for a few minutes,” he said shortly. “Now I want you to tell me. What is Cecil Garcia to you?”
She started, swayed, as if to fall, then recovered herself, as if by an effort of will.
“You know, then?” she gasped. “He has told you?”
“Everything?”
“Everything! Oh, the infamous fiend! He was always that way.”
“Maybe. Now I must have an answer to this! Who is Laura’s father? Cecil Garcia or—Sir Francis Orlebar?”
She started from her chair, and stood gazing at him, unutterable horror in her eyes, her lips livid and shaking. Her next words were gulped out, as though between the gasps of strangulation.
“He—told you—?”
“That your daughter’s father is my father. That I had married my half-sister. Is it true?”
She tried to speak—the words would not come. The full horror—the diabolical ingenuity—of Fordham’s plan, burst upon her now—for the first time, and burst upon her with crushing force. This was the blow then. While the barest taint of such suspicion lurked in Philip’s mind, Laura might go through life alone. This was how Fordham had chosen to strike her. And she had half credited him with benevolent motives! Him, a devil in human shape!