“Mr. Lavarre made a great effort at calmness, and answered:
“‘Yes, justice, Mr. Stanley. I ought to kill you, but what would that avail my disgraced daughter, my only child? I despise you, but you must remove the stain from Lena’s name, and make her your wife in reality.’
“The young man laughed derisively, but Mr. Lavarre added:
“‘Lena lies upon a bed of illness from which she may never arise; but I demand that you come with me this moment and make my poor child your legal wife, that she may rest at least in an honest woman’s grave!’
“It was pitiful, the sorrow of that old gray-haired father. My tears fell like rain.
“But Mr. Stanley was pitiless. He mocked at the old man and his deceived daughter, and refused the outraged father’s demand with insulting words that made my very blood run cold. Ah, he was a fiend in human shape!”
“A fiend!” echoed poor Lena Lavarre.
“His insulting words seemed to cut the old man to the heart, and beat down the barriers of self-control that he was trying to hold intact. His face paled with wrath, his eyes blazed, and he sprang wildly at Stanley’s throat, catching it in his long thin fingers. There was a moment’s struggle, then—I caught the gleam of a slender dagger in Stanley’s hand, and—the next moment it was sheathed in the old man’s heart! With a groan, he fell dead at his murderer’s feet!”
“Father!” moaned the hapless Lena, and her head sank on her breast.
Violet thought, for a moment, she had fainted, but presently she lifted her head, sighing in a hollow voice: