Merad, hesitating for the first time, glanced at his wife, who shook her head pleadingly for him to hold his peace. But Janet sprang forward and stood erect beside him.
“Tell him!” she cried, defiantly. “The infamous secret has been kept too long.”
Then Merad spoke in a low, clear voice.
“Your own son was the forger,” he said.
“It’s a lie!” shouted the Colonel, shrinking back, nevertheless, from the Persian’s calm gaze.
“It is true. The money saved Allison from shame and exposure; so Howard dared not force him to return it. But the bank, being the direct victim of the forgery, placed the matter in the hands of the detective police. The toils were closing slowly but surely around your son when Howard, seeing no other way to save you, and tenderly loving the sister of the real criminal, whose heart he feared would be broken at the disclosure of her brother’s infamy, decided to save you all by acknowledging himself the forger. It was a rash idea, hastily conceived and executed in a panic of fear, for the detectives were close upon the trail. He left me a note, telling me the whole truth and begging me not to betray Allison, for he had fled the country and would never return. Well knowing that he did not realize the consequences of his generous act, his mother and I set out to follow him, and for seven long years we have striven in vain to regain our lost son. I will not bore you, Colonel Moore, with a recital of our anxieties and sufferings—borne on your account; but I think it ill becomes you to revile the name of Howard Osborne. Rather should you fall at his feet in gratitude for one of the most noble and unselfish acts any man has ever performed.”
The impressive and convincing tones carried with them the warrant of truth. The Colonel fell back upon his chair, covering his face with his hands, and Janet knelt beside him, her arms around his neck and her cheek to his, striving silently to comfort him. And while they remained thus, with little David gaping in the frame of the panel and still holding the flickering candle above his head, the door of the apartment suddenly opened and Ahmed Khan strode in.
One look into the grave faces of the group before him warned the ruler of Mekran that a crisis had arisen. Janet arose and stole swiftly to his side, and he placed an arm around her with a reassuring smile. The Colonel looked up, and meeting the calm grey eyes of Howard Osborne he seemed shaken with a fury of doubt and rage.
“It is all false!” he cried, springing to his feet. “I am being tricked and deceived—even by my own daughter. This fellow is no Khan of Mekran, but a fugitive from American justice, masquerading as a native of Baluchistan. The forger of seven years ago is the impostor of today! Come to me, Janet. That man is not worthy to touch you.”
“Worthy or unworthy,” said the girl, clinging yet closer to the Khan, “my place is by his side. We were married seven years ago, before he left America. I am his wife, father!”