"No," she answered quietly. "To show you I threaten nothing, there are my marriage lines. Burn them if you will!"
She sat quite still while the old man, with fingers that trembled visibly, unfolded the paper she gave him. There was no mistaking its worth. In Marmaduke's bold black writing were the words--
"I, Marmaduke Muir, second son of Baron Drummuir, of Drummuir Castle, hereby acknowledge Marrion Paul as my lawful wife." Underneath in her finer writing was her own acknowledgment of her tie to Marmaduke.
The old man, for all he had had no hopes of escape, was wary.
"You give this up because you know he, my fool of a son, has a counterpart, eh? That's about it, I expect?"
Marrion flushed to the very roots of her hair, but she spoke calmly.
"Yes, your son has the counterpart----" she began.
The old man burst into one of his sudden rude guffaws.
"Ha, ha, ha! And you thought you'd take in the old fox, my fine madam!" he said, then paused before the passion of her face.
"If you will listen you will believe me. I could claim to be his wife now if I chose. I do not choose. I prefer that he should lead the life he loved, that he should marry and bring you the heir for which--for which you would sell your soul, you poor old man! But Marmaduke is a soldier born; if he misses this chance he will be a disappointed man. As like as not he will never marry, even though he knows I've set him free. But send him this money, and I swear to you the counterpart shall be destroyed. What shall I swear by? I swear by the poor dead baby!" She paused. "Marmaduke said he was so like you. I never saw him. I was too near death."