She caught at her heart and took a step nearer him.
"My mother—who was my mother?" she gasped.
He shrugged. "Mary Callonby—the Duchesse de Vautrin," he said easily. "And you are Patricia Madeline Aulnoy de Vautrin."
"Impossible. I'm no longer credulous."
"You'll have to believe the truth!"
"And who are you to ask me to believe? You who dared to speak to me of the sanctity of motherhood, who taught me that I was your own daughter—and that my mother, your wife——"
She broke off with a sob, quickly controlled.
"It was because I loved ye, Moira dear," he said very quietly.
She halted, aghast at this tenderness, the familiar tones of which made her wonder for a moment whether she weren't dreaming all the dreadful accusations on her tongue's end. But a pain shot through her heart to remind her of her sufferings.
"And was it because you loved me that you dared obliterate me, sneered at my pitiful love affair—the only passion I've had in my life or will have—and even tried to murder in cold blood—the—the object—of it? Answer me that—Barry Quinlevin!"