“I have to inform you you are quite mistaken there,” he replied, calmly. “Mr. Rexford Lyon will not marry you to-night, for he is already married to my little daughter Daisy.” 199 He produced the certificate as he spoke, laying it on the table. “Rex thought her dead,” he continued, simply. “I have sent for him to break the startling news of Daisy’s presence, and I expect him here every moment.”
“Pluma,” cried Daisy, unclasping her arms from her father’s neck, and swiftly crossing over to where her rival stood, beautifully, proudly defiant, “forgive me for the pain I have caused you unknowingly. I did not dream I was––an––an––heiress––or that Mr. Hurlhurst was my father. I don’t want you to go away, Pluma, from the luxury that has been yours; stay and be my sister––share my home.”
“My little tender-hearted angel!” cried Basil Hurlhurst, moved to tears.
John Brooks hid his face in his hands.
For a single instant the eyes of these two girls met––whose lives had crossed each other so strangely––Daisy’s blue eyes soft, tender and appealing, Pluma’s hard, flashing, bitter and scornful.
She drew herself up to her full height.
“Remain in your house?” she cried, haughtily, trembling with rage. “You mistake me, girl: do you think I could see you enjoying the home that I have believed to be mine––see the man I love better than life itself lavish caresses upon you––kiss your lips––and bear it calmly? Live the life of a pauper when I have been led to believe I was an heiress! Better had I never known wealth than be cast from luxury into the slums of poverty,” she wailed out, sharply. “I shall not touch a dollar of your money, Basil Hurlhurst. I despise you too much. I have lived with the trappings of wealth around me––the petted child of luxury––all in vain––all in vain.”
Basil Hurlhurst was struck with the terrible grandeur of the picture she made, standing there in her magnificent, scornful pride––a wealth of jewels flashing on her throat and breast and twined in the long, sweeping hair that had become loosened and swept in a dark, shining mass to her slender waist, her flashing eyes far outshining the jewels upon which the softened gas-light streamed. Not one gleam of remorse softened her stony face in its cruel, wicked beauty. Her jeweled hand suddenly crept to the pocket of her dress where she had placed the vial.
“Open that door!” she commanded.
The key fell from her mother’s nerveless grasp. The detective quietly picked it up, placed it in the lock, and opened 200 the door. And just at that instant, Rex Lyon, with the letter in his hand, reached it.