The Colonel’s face expressed horror and grief.
“I—I don’t understand,” he muttered, vacantly.
“The explanation is very simple,” replied Dr. Osborne. “My son Howard, who was at one time your private secretary, is at present Khan of Mekran.”
A sudden stillness succeeded this announcement, and then a look of comprehension stole over the Colonel’s face. He rose from his chair and drew himself up with cold dignity.
“Then, sir, I demand to know what my daughter is doing in the house of the scoundrel who swindled me seven years ago? As for her statement that she is his wife, that is, of course, a lie!”
The Persian confronted him with folded arms, looking down upon the Colonel from his superior height with the same intent and compelling force in the dark eyes that had awed the native assemblage at the death-bed of Burah Khan.
“Howard Osborne is not a scoundrel,” he said.
“He is worse than that!” roared the choleric colonel, now beside himself with anger; “he is a thief, a forger and a coward. He signed my name for twenty thousand dollars, and ran away with the money. I have never seen his face from that day to this.”
“It is true that my son left New York with this stigma attached to his name,” said the other, calmly. “But he did it to save you, Piedmont Moore, from a still greater humiliation, although I vainly pleaded with him to consider his own family before yours.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the Colonel, plainly staggered at this statement.