“For the present, we’ll line ’em up against the wall,” said Clifford—which they did. “Later we can decide what to do with them.”
“But what’s all this about?” demanded Mr. Morton.
“Explanations can wait until later,” returned Clifford. “The first thing is your business with Miss Gilmore. Miss Gilmore, I believe you started to tell us something.”
Once more Clifford looked at Mary keenly—back again in that mood of palpitant suspense as to what lay in her heart—as to what she was about to say and do—she who this moment held her dream-world in her hands! Morton, silent, awaited her speech. From the wall Loveman, Bradley, and Hilton looked on in varying degrees of fear, chagrin, and glowering wrath.
When at length Mary spoke, she spoke quietly. “The first thing I wish to tell you, Mr. Morton, is comparatively of no importance. I wrote you that letter, yes. That was weeks ago. I wrote it the very night you refused to entrust Jack to me. I was angry. I was determined you should suffer, too. I was going to lead you on—get you caught in a predicament that would make you writhe—and then would come public humiliation.”
“What kind of a predicament?” asked Mr. Morton.
“It doesn’t matter now. But I had my plan—and I think I could have made it work. You got only that one letter, Mr. Morton. That was because, when I calmed down, I changed my mind. I did not want to do what I had planned to do.”
Somehow—though Mary Regan could mean nothing in his life—this statement brought great relief to Clifford.
She went on in the same quiet voice. “The rest of what I have to tell you is of more importance. My name is not Miss Gilmore nor Mrs. Gardner, and never was. My name is Mary Regan. My father was ‘Gentleman Jim’ Regan, a confidence-man; I’ve helped my Uncle Joe Russell, another confidence-man. I’ve been something of a confidence-woman, a crook, in the past. Now I’m what you’d probably call an adventuress.”
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Morton.