"Did you speak of marriage in your letters?"
The lad's face flushed crimson. He knew that he could not tell Paul Boriskoff the truth.
"I did not speak of marriage—why should I?" he exclaimed; "it was never your wish that we should speak of it until Lois is twenty-one. She will not be that for more than three years—why do you ask me the question to-night?"
"Because you have learned to love another woman."
A dead silence fell in the room. The old man continued to tap gently upon the coil of tube, rapidly assuming a fantastic shape under the masterly touch of a trained hand. A candle flickered by him upon a crazy table where stood a crust of bread and a lump of coarse cheese. Not boastfully had he told Richard Gessner that he would accept nothing for himself. He was even poorer than he had been six weeks ago when he discovered that his old enemy was alive.
"You love another woman, Alban Kennedy, and you have wished to forget my daughter."
"You love another woman, Alban Kennedy, and you have wished to forget my daughter. Do not say that it is not the truth, for I read it upon your face. You should be ashamed to come here unless you can deny it. Fortune has been kind to you, but how have you rewarded those for whom she has nothing? I say that you have forgotten them—been ashamed of them as they have now the right to be ashamed of you."