The Irishman's manner now changed. His brows drew together in a tight knot and the long fingers upon the chair-arm clenched until the knuckles were white.
"I'll answer ye that," he said abruptly. "And more. I've heard what ye had to say with patience and chagrin. I'll take the blame for me sins of omission where blame is due, trusting to yer conscience to be forgiving me presently for yer harsh tones to one who sinned for the very love of ye. But when ye speak of this other man who by a trick forces his way into yer lodgings and yer affections, learns yer family secrets and mine, reads yer letters and mine, makes love to his own brother's wife behind his back,—yer own brother-in-law, mind ye—and then tells one lie after another to make his story good, its time there was a man about the place to protect ye, if ye can't protect yerself——"
"Stop——!"
"No. I've heard you. Now ye'll be listening to me. If Harry isn't man enough to be looking out fer what belongs to him, then I am. Ye've given this man yer heart, acknowledged yer affections before us all. God be praised that's all it amounts to! But when ye hear me out, ye'll be wishing yer tongue had rotted before ye'd made such an admission."
He saw her shrink and he rose from his chair, following up his advantage quickly. "There—there my dear, Ye've almost had enough of trouble for one night——"
"Go on," she murmured stanchly, "but if you're going to speak ill of Jim Horton I won't believe you."
"Ye can do as ye please about that, but I'll be telling ye what I know of him just the same. And when I tell ye I wish I'd shot him dead before yer eyes, I'd only be satisfying the conscience of yer life-long guardian and protector——"
"Conscience! You!" she laughed hysterically. "Go on."
"I will, little as ye'll like it. When I went from here where d'ye suppose I went? To Pochard. And I wrung from him the truth about yer friend Jim Horton. It was Piquette Morin who helped him from the house in the Rue Charron——"
"I know it. I thank God for it."