"It is nothing but a pack of lies—a lot of wretched lies. It is all untrue; everything is untrue," Mrs. Dickson exclaimed.
"Even before it is said," Slaughter remarked dryly. "Miss," he added, with a return of the angry vigour to his voice, "I told you my story once, the story of what made me a lonely man, the story of a lie a woman told to the woman I loved and who loved me. That woman—the woman I loved—was your mother. The other is there."
His tone had grown harder with every word, his eyes brighter, and his face more pale and set. As he spoke the last words there was an energy in voice and manner which seemed to make them almost a blow, and a blow before which the blind woman shrank.
"It's a lie!" she muttered. "It's a lie!"
"It was a lie," he thundered. "It was a lie that ruined one life and nearly blasted another, and now—now I've found you, after years of longing and waiting, found you as the mother of a scoundrel who sought to ruin the daughter of the woman you wronged."
"It's a lie!" she repeated. "My boy is brave; he would wrong no one."
"Where is he now?" Slaughter went on, in a voice that was loud and angry. "Where was he last night?"
"He is out at the fire," she said. "He is a brave boy and a good boy. Blame me as you like, but you shall not blame him."
Ailleen, watching the two, fascinated by the development which was as inexplicable to her as it was unexpected, felt a touch of pity as she saw the expression of pride come over the blind woman's face—pride for the absent Willy!
"The close companion of Barber," Slaughter said; and Mrs. Dickson, clasping her hands together, sank into her chair again.