“But, Miss Brewster,” he urged, “that, you see, is impossible. Will you disclose Mr. Dunreath’s felony? Will you create a needless scandal and lose your fortune? No; if you will but settle this little business with me (the sum, of course, is but a mere bagatelle to a rich lady like you), the secret will remain forever buried in my bosom, and no mortal shall know what has passed between us. The moment you hand me your check for twenty thousand dollars, payable to the bearer, that moment you shall with your own hand burn these incriminating letters.”
I reiterated that in spite of the danger of bringing ignominy upon the name of my old friend, I should consult my lawyer before taking any steps in the matter.
“But I can’t wait,” he retorted almost fiercely, and there was a look in his eyes which made me start. My heart rose. Could it be that those terrible letters were only clever forgeries? He instantly recollected himself, however, and his tone assumed a touch of pathos.
“Miss Brewster,” he said, and there was a tremor in his voice as he looked at me beseechingly; “my mother, whom I have not seen for years, is dying. The physician gives her at most only a month to live. Unknown to my father she has cabled me to return instantly. Ah, my sweet mother,” he murmured, as if speaking to himself, while his eyes were wet with unshed tears, “the moments are years until I see her. Oh, if I should be too late! And then—who knows? perhaps,—yes,—perhaps, if I may stand beside my mother’s deathbed, my stern old father may be reconciled to me—may bid me stay, and I may have the unspeakable comfort of sustaining his declining years.”
I watched him keenly. If this were acting, it had been very good acting until now. But these last few words had a false ring in them, which even my unpracticed ear detected. With a mournful sigh he showed me two miniatures painted on ivory, one the face of a handsome, dark-eyed woman, the other that of a scholarly-looking man of middle age. These, he said, were the portraits of his father and mother, and as he returned the latter to its velvet case he pressed it tenderly to his lips.
It was very touching, and I was half convinced, especially when my eye fell again on that curious handwriting whose peculiarities I knew so well. The man evidently saw that I was agitated and afraid that his story might, after all, be true. He continued:—
“But, Miss Brewster, I have no money. I arrived here last week from Rio Janeiro. My father has disinherited me, as I have told you. My little private fortune, my mother’s gift, which I could have doubled in a year’s time by my investments, was all given to save my friend. Madame!” he cried, “where is your sense of justice—simple justice—if you refuse me the paltry sum which saved the reputation and wealth of the man whose heiress you now are? You have his own confession here before you, signed with his name. The evidence is unimpeachable. If I bring it into court, it may cost you half your millions. Madame, the Urania sails to-morrow, I must go. I must have money, the money you owe me. If you refuse”—
I rose to bring this extraordinary interview to an immediate close. I was shaking from head to foot and thankful beyond measure that Hélène, who had doubtless heard the whole conversation, understood too little English to realize its import. I was convinced that I had to deal with a very shrewd, clever villain, who had worked up his facts most adroitly, and was trying a desperate confidence game. But he was not to be gotten rid of so easily. Suddenly falling upon one knee, he grasped my hand as I stood before him and poured out a torrent of words, of which I remember nothing, for I was too indignant and astounded even to think of calling upon Hélène. We must have looked for all the world like the tragic pictures in the “Police Gazette,” which my naughty youngsters used to display behind my back at the Mission School.
Suddenly I came to my senses. I don’t suppose the whole scene lasted half a minute at most. Tearing my hand away, I was rushing for Hélène,—who, as I learned afterward, was sound asleep, with the door blown to,—when, as a last bit of desperation, what did this man do, but snatch a dainty little pistol from his hip pocket, and before I could scream or even gasp an articulate word he aimed it at his temples and seemed about to fire. I can hardly tell what I did then. I believe I screamed, and I must have rushed upon the madman, for the next instant I found myself with the pistol in my hand trying to fire it up the chimney, while the Señor lay prostrate apparently in a swoon. But the pistol would not fire; evidently it was not loaded. I dropped it into the smouldering ashes, and staggered into the next room, where my stupid maid lay soundly sleeping on the sofa. Faint and trembling I dropped into the nearest chair. I could not have walked six inches further, and was too weak to attempt to arouse Hélène. On the whole, I was glad not to do so, for she would have been too frightened to be of the least use. Moreover, she would have raised the neighborhood with her shrieks, while I should have been ready to die with mortification and disgust.
In imagination I saw the lurid head lines of the next day’s columns of society gossip and scandal. “Dunreath’s Defalcation!” “How it Horrifies His Heiress!!” I saw myself posing as the heroine of a sixth-rate dime novel; on whose pages alone, as I had always supposed, such experiences as this ever took place. It did not take three seconds for all this to flash through my brain and make the cold sweat stand out in drops upon my forehead.