"I expect you have heard as much from Joe Brill," replied Lestrange, looking at her gloomily. "No, you are not my daughter, but you are my cousin, Marie Lestrange, although you choose to keep your name of Sophia Marlow."
"I keep the name of the man who has been a father to me."
"In that case, you should call yourself Beauchamp," he retorted. "May I sit down? Thank you. Well, I suppose you are wondering why I have come to see you?"
She glanced at the card.
"To give me news of my father, I presume," she said. "Do you mean my real father?"
"No, I mean the false one. Your real father died long ago. He was murdered by Beauchamp."
"He was not!" cried Sophy vehemently, and started from her seat. "I have heard the story from Joe, and I know now why you came here. But nothing will induce me to believe that he killed my father. My mother fled to him from the cruelty of her husband, and you were at the bottom of all the trouble."
"Yes," he cried fiercely, "I was! I loved your mother dearly. She gave me up for Achille, and I swore I would be revenged. I sowed dissension between them. It was through me that Zelia fled with Beauchamp. Do you think I am sorry for what happened? I am not. I hated Achille; but he is dead. I hate Beauchamp, for your mother loved him----"
"And he also is dead," interrupted Sophy; "you cannot harm him."
"Are you so sure he is dead?" sneered Lestrange.