She had risen from the chair where, during almost all this time, she had sat like a statue, only none watched her, not even Agatha. When she rose, it was with a motion so slow and gliding, her soft black dress scarcely rustling as she moved, that Frederick Harper might well start, thinking a supernatural touch was on his arm.
“Anne, is it you? I had forgotten you. No”—he muttered, half to himself, turning from the contest with his brother to gaze on her—“no, I never did—never do forget you.”
“I believe that. Come and speak to me here.”
Unresisted, she put her arm in his, and led him away to the deep bay-window, circled with a low-cushioned sill, such as delights children. Anne sat down.
“Are you determined on this cruel course?”
“I must recover my rights,” was the sullen answer. “Any man would.”
“And when you have done this—supposing it practicable—what further do you purpose?”
“What further?” He looked puzzled, but at last perceived her meaning. With an impulse eagerly caught, as Major Harper caught all impulses, good and ill, he cried—“Yes, I understand you. My first act, on coming to my property shall be to right poor Agatha.”
“I thought so,” said Anne, kindly. “But you will not be able. There are others whose claims will be upon you the instant you have money to satisfy them—the shareholders. They know nothing of Agatha Bowen. Remember you expended her fortune as you worked the mine—in your own name.”
Major Harper looked confounded with shame. “And you knew all this, Anne—you! For how long?”