St. Leon answered gravely:
"There is no mistake. This is my wife, Mr. Gordon."
Mrs. Gordon cried out, startlingly:
"Then where is our daughter?"
She looked ready to faint. Her limbs tottered beneath her. She clung to her husband with one hand pressed upon her throbbing heart, and stared at the lovely creature on St. Leon's arm as if she were a ghost. Mrs. Le Roy, still pale and wan from her recent illness, rose from the couch where she reclined and tottered to her side.
"My dear friends, have you all taken leave of your senses?" she cried. "Have you forgotten your own daughter's face? Beatrix, darling, why do you not come to your mother?"
Only a stifled moan came from Laurel's lips, but Mrs. Gordon answered, sternly:
"This is no daughter of ours. We have never seen her face before to-night!"
And Mrs. Merivale, in the background, gazed in gloating wonder and triumph at the pale, horrified face of St. Leon's wife. She was burning with anxiety to hear the dénouement of this strange and startling scene.
"This is no daughter of ours. We have never seen her face before to-night," repeated Mr. Gordon, and his wife feebly reiterated his words.