"You can't—you won't do that."
Moira seemed to find her speech with an effort, for the rapidity of events and their portentous consequences to her own destiny had robbed her of all initiative. But her courage came back with a rush as she faced this man who had deceived her all these years—and charmed her even now with his reckless grace and magnetism.
"You won't do that," she went on breathlessly. "I can't permit it. I've heard all you said. I've been listening—-there——"
"Ah, you heard," said Quinlevin with a quick glance at her. "Then perhaps it's just as well. I would be having to tell you some day." And then, with quick decision. "Ye're not my daughter. Ye're the child of the Duc de Vautrin."
As he shot this bolt at her, he watched its effect. Moira grew even paler and stared at him as though he were a person she had never seen before.
"The daughter—of the Duc de Vautrin?" she stammered.
"That's not true, Moira," broke in Jim's voice, "but you're not his daughter either. I'll take my oath on it."
She glanced at Jim as though the deep tones of his voice had steadied her for a moment.
"Not his daughter—then who——?" She paused and sought Quinlevin's eyes uncertainly.
"I've told ye the truth, my dear. It was my crime not to have told ye before—but that's all ye can lay against me—that and the love for ye that has made the confession difficult."