Mr. Burthon shifted uneasily in his chair. He had never seen the girl before, yet there was something singularly familiar in her features.
“Be good enough to tell me who you are,” he said in the gentle tone he invariably employed toward women. “I have granted this interview at your request, but I am very busy to-day and have little time to spare you.”
“I am your niece,” she replied, slowly and deliberately.
“Oh!” he exclaimed; then paused to observe her curiously. “So, you are my sister Marian’s daughter.”
“Exactly.”
“I knew she had a child, for often she wrote me about it; but her early death and my estrangement with your father prevented me from seeing you, until now. Your mother, my dear, was a—a noble woman.”
“You are not telling the truth,” said Sybil, quietly. “She was quite the contrary.”
He started and flushed. Then he replied, somewhat confused by the girl’s scornful regard:
“At least, I loved her. She was my only sister.”
“And your accomplice.”