"It was a reasonable request," Sabatini remarked. "I trust that the fellow recognized the situation?"
"He had already written out Ruth's history," Arnold said, his voice shaking a little. "He had written it out in pencil on a couple of sheets of foolscap. He gave them to me to bring away with me. I read them coming up. I am here now to repeat their purport to you."
Sabatini gave a little nod of interest. His glance at the clock was apologetic. He had thrown his overcoat once more upon his arm, and, with his white-gloved hand resting upon the back of a chair, stood listening in an attitude of courteous ease.
"I shall be glad to hear the story," he said. "I must admit that although I only met the young lady for those few minutes at Bourne End, I found myself most interested in her. I feel sure that she is charming in every way. Please go on."
"If Isaac's story is true," Arnold continued slowly, "you should indeed be interested in her."
Sabatini's eyebrows were slightly raised.
"I scarcely understand," he murmured. "I—pray go on."
"According to his story," Arnold said, "Ruth Lalonde is your daughter."
Sabatini stood perfectly motionless. The slight expression of tired attention with which he had been listening, had faded from his face. In the late sunshine which still filled the room, there was something almost corpse-like in the pallor of his cheeks, his unnatural silence. When he spoke, his words came slowly.
"Is this a jest?"