"You refuse to disclose your identity?" said Mr. Gordon, wonderingly.
"I refuse," she answered, with a reckless defiance born of despair.
And at that moment a mocking laugh, cruel as a fiend's, rang startlingly through the splendid room.
Every eye turned toward the sound. Through the wide lace curtains that shaded the low French windows a man stepped into the room—Ross Powell!
Laurel saw him, and a shriek of despair rose from her lips at the sight of her enemy's evil, triumphant face. She covered her face with her trembling hands and sunk down upon the floor, crouching like a guilty creature from the angry judges surrounding her.
Ross Powell went forward to his employer, Mr. Gordon.
"Sir," he said, respectfully, "you wish to know the name of this matchless hypocrite and deceiver. I can soon enlighten you."
"Speak, then," Mr. Gordon answered, quickly, gazing at his clerk in surprise and wonder.
"You remember Vane, the drunken writer, who died almost a year ago?" said Ross Powell brutally.
"Yes; but what has Louis Vane to do with this mysterious girl?" inquired Mr. Gordon, bluntly.