"I hope the two girls are quite well, quite—quite—well."
"Two girls!" said the aunt. "Two girls!"
"Yes," gasped Oakley. "Johanna and Arabella, you know—your Arabella, and my Johanna—my child."
"You ought to know, Mr. Oakley, considering that they are at your house, you know. I hope that neither of them have been at all indisposed? Surely that is not the case, and this is not your strange way of breaking it to us, Mr. Oakley?"
The bereaved father—yes, at that moment he felt that he was a bereaved father—clutched the arms of the chair upon which he sat, and his face turned of a ghastly paleness. He made an inarticulate effort to speak, but could only produce a strange gurgling noise.
"Gracious Heavens! he is ill," cried Arabella's aunt.
"No, madam," said Lupin. "He is only convinced."
"Convinced of what?"
"Of what he himself will tell you, madam."
"Help! help!" cried Oakley. "Help! My child—my Johanna—my beautiful child. Mercy—help. Give her to my arms again. Oh, no—no—no, she could not leave me thus. It is false—it is some desperate juggle! My child—my child, come once again to these arms.—God—God help me!"