'Then, Sir,' said I, 'to be plain and explicit, learn, that I have discovered a mystery in my birth, and that you—you, Wilkinson, are not—my real Father!'
I pronounced these words with a measured emphasis, and one of my ineffable looks. Wilkinson coloured like scarlet and stared steadily in my face.
'Would you scandalize the mother that bore you?' cried he, fiercely.
'No, Wilkinson,' answered I, 'but you would, by calling yourself my father.'
'And if I am not,' said he, 'what the mischief must you be?'
'An illustrious heiress,' cried I, 'snatched from my parents in her infancy;—snatched by thee, vile agent of the diabolical conspiracy!'
He looked aghast.
'Tell me then,' continued I, 'miserable man, tell me where my dear, my distracted father lingers out the remnant of his wretched days? My mother too—or say, am I indeed an orphan?'
Still he remained mute, and gazed on me with a searching intensity. I raised my voice:
'Expiate thy dire offences, restore an outcast to her birthright, make atonement, or tremble at retribution!'