Mr. Clarke, still holding the shining necklace in his hand, cried bitterly:
"Miserable murderess, you are detected in your crimes! Here is the proof in my hand that you are the fiend that stole my infant daughter from her mother's breast, and made her young life one long torture! Here upon the floor and the bed are the blood stains that prove you murdered my child last night. My God, I only keep my hands off your throat so that you may tell me what you have done with my precious dead!" his voice ending in a hollow groan.
The detected wretch crept closer to Cisneros, whining:
"Don't let him kill me! I know I deserve it, but don't let him kill me!"
"Tell him the truth, then!" cried Cisneros, who, although not a very good man himself, was astonished at the story he had heard, and felt a keen disgust for the repulsive, whining old creature.
"What is it you want to know?" she muttered, gazing fearfully at Clarke.
"Was not Liane Lester my own child?"
"Yes, I s'pose it's useless to deny it, now that you've found your baby's necklace in my trunk."
"And the girl I adopted as my daughter is your grandchild?"
"Yes—but you'll have to keep her now, and give her all your gold. You won't never find Liane no more!" she muttered, with a cunning leer, as of one demented.