“Yes,” he said in a low voice again, as if he were communing with himself rather than answering the other man’s question; “yes, we shall take up our lives as before, my child, my Doris and I! She will be my Doris still, mine to love, and guard, and watch over! You saw her——” he went on with suppressed eagerness. “There was truth in what you said, though you meant it insultingly; she will be a great actress—great! And it is I who have taught her—I, who loved her mother! You taunted me, Spenser Churchill, with selfish aims in keeping from her the knowledge of her birth. It was unjust. ‘Hide my child from him always—always, Jeffrey!’ she said. They were her last words. Poor Lucy!”
His head drooped, and he covered his eyes with his thin, gaunt hands for a moment; then, as if remembering the presence of the other man, turned to him.
“You are here still? Why are you waiting? Go your way, and let me go mine. You know my secret—it is no concern of yours. Forget it, as you forget the wrong you did me. Go!” and he pointed down the path.
Spenser Churchill smiled blandly.
“My dear Jeffrey, doesn’t it occur to you that perhaps this little secret of yours does concern me?”
The haggard eyes were raised to the smooth, mocking face.
“Doesn’t it occur to you that, though you don’t appear to have any conscience to speak of, that I may not be so hardened. Oh, fie, Jeffrey! You know, you really must know, what it is my duty to do!”
“Your duty?” repeated Jeffrey, in a low voice. “What do you mean?”
“Why, my dear sir, of course it is my duty to go to the marquis, and inform him of the existence of his child. Oh! and how sweet a duty,” he murmured, “to restore a long lost child to its father’s loving arms!”
Jeffrey sprang to his feet, and stood, breathing hard, his hand clinched tightly at his side.