Thornton flushed angrily, and his resentment of old flamed into speech.
"I've come to make your aunt—pay. When I saw you before—you and your supposed sister—your aunt had all the cards in her hands, but I told her then that murder would out—and by God! it has—and now it is pay day." The years had coarsened Thornton.
Joan stared at the man across the table as if he had suddenly gone mad before her eyes. She was frightened; she heard distant voices—the cook speaking to Jed—she wanted to call out; meant to—but instead she asked dully:
"What do you mean by—my supposed sister?"
Thornton shifted his position and leaned forward over the table.
"So—eh? She didn't tell you all? I see. She confined the story to—me. And—you've believed all your life—that—that the girl, Nancy, was your sister? Well—by heaven! Doris has taken a chance."
"You have got to tell me what you mean!"
Joan was no longer filled with personal fear—it was wider, deeper than that.
"And you must not lie," she added, fiercely—anger was giving her strength. Thornton regarded her through half-closed eyes.
"Lying isn't my big line," he said, roughly, "if it had seen, I might have escaped the infernal mess that I hatched by—telling the truth in the first place. Since your aunt has neglected her duty—I will tell you the truth!"