“She did—to-day—an hour ago.”
“She here—out here?” There was a new, cowed note in the voice.
“She is in the next room.”
“What did she come here for?”
“To make you do right by your own child. I wonder what a jury of decent men would think about a man who robbed his child for five years, and let that child be fed and clothed and cared for by the girl he tried to destroy, the girl he taught what sin there was in the world.”
“She put you up to this. She was always in love with you, and you know it.”
There was a dangerous look in Foyle’s eyes, and his jaw set hard. “There would be no shame in a decent woman caring for me, even if it was true. I haven’t put myself outside the boundary as you have. You’re my brother, but you’re the worst scoundrel in the country—the worst unhanged. Put on the table there the letter in your pocket. It holds five hundred dollars belonging to your child. There’s twenty-five hundred dollars more to be accounted for.”
The other hesitated, then with an oath threw the letter on the table. “I’ll pay the rest as soon as I can, if you’ll stop this damned tomfoolery,” he said, sullenly, for he saw that he was in a hole.
“You’ll pay it, I suppose, out of what you stole from the C. P. R. contractor’s chest. No, I don’t think that will do.”
“You want me to go to prison, then?”