Varick's face grew still harder.
"Mapleson, are you mad or what is it? My soul, man; whatever in the world possessed you?"
Mr. Mapleson's jaw dropped suddenly. Again the last vestige of color fled from his furrowed face. He gaped at Varick like one bemused.
"What do you mean?" he whispered.
Varick said it then.
"I've found you out, Mapleson! You had those letters, didn't you? You gave those lawyers their proofs. It was you, wasn't it, who got together all those papers?"
Yes, it was Mr. Mapleson who had done all this, but still he did not speak. It was as if his tongue, paralyzed, cleaved to the roof of his mouth.
"Well," said Varick, "they were all forgeries! You forged them, John Mapleson. You cooked them all up yourself! Bab is no more Beeston's grandchild than I am!"
Mr. Mapleson did not even deny it.
"Hush!" he whispered, his voice appalled. "What if they should find out! Think what they'd do to her!"