She paused, bewildered by the very terror of her thoughts.
"Listen, Moira. You must know it all. As nearly as I can get it, the story is this. Twenty-five years ago the Duc de Vautrin married an Irish heiress from Athlone in Galway named Mary Callonby, receiving with her her immense dot, with the provision from her father's will that if any child was born, the fortune should go to that child in the event of the mother's death."
"Callonby!" whispered Moira half to herself. "Athlone!"
"The Duc de Vautrin was a beast and mistreated his wife, so that she ran away from him into Ireland, where a daughter was born to her—Mary Callonby dying in childbirth." And then softly, "Do you follow me, Moira? It's very important."
"I'm trying—to follow you," she murmured painfully.
"When Mary Callonby left the Duc, de Vautrin went upon a voyage around the world, enjoying himself with her money for two years, and unaware of the death of his wife or of the birth of his little daughter, who was cared for and nursed by a woman named Nora Burke——"
"Nora Burke!" Moira had started up suddenly in her chair, her eyes wide with sudden comprehension.
"You remember her——" he said.
"My old nurse——!"
"Yes. It's here that the story involves your fortunes and—and Barry Quinlevin's. The infant daughter of the Duc de Vautrin died at the end of a few months, without his being aware of it—without his even being aware that a daughter had been born. The death of this child was kept a secret——"