"'What's that to you?' said I. 'There's a crime the less on your conscience.'
"He laughed harshly. 'I confess she was worth sparing; she is a charming creature. You seem to have brought her up remarkably well, but I think you have done enough. I propose to assume her guardianship in future.' Then he went on to offer me money—me!—to give up my child. I saw his infernal scheme, and I burst out in a fury. I threatened to expose him. 'Try,' he replied, 'and see what will become of it. I shall simply tell my story. I went out to Chili to find my cousin, who had succeeded to the family estate of Denham. I had a considerable sum of money with me for his use. A desperate scoundrel sees us discussing business matters, and the money on a table before us. He follows poor Gilbert, murders and robs him; incites the ruffians of the place to fire Deering's house. In the scuffle Gilbert's little girl is supposed to be burnt—years after I discover her in Paris. I denounce the murderer, save my young cousin, unveil the monster on whom she has lavished her filial affection—and——'
"'Lose your estates,' I interrupted. 'You didn't want to murder Gilbert Deering for nothing. How would my story tell against yours?'
"'My good friend, not a soul would believe your word against mine. Your antecedents would put you out of court!'
"'You would need a witness or two,' said I.
"'I might find one,' he said, with an air of careless security that thrilled me with fear. I thought of his strange intimacy with Vincent. But he wouldn't be such a villain as to forswear himself? 'I'll give you a few days to reflect,' he went on. 'This is my proposition. Hand over the girl to my custody. I will find her a good husband, and generally take care of her. You make yourself scarce; be off to America, and drink yourself to death. I'll give you two hundred a year while you are above ground. Refuse, and I'll lodge information against you in consequence of revelations made to me by your friend Vincent. Now take your choice. My position is impregnable; every one knows Gilbert Deering was murdered; it only remains to discover the murderer. If I am driven to this, I shall stand out in bright colors as a just and chivalrous kinsman, and no doubt some compromise beneficial to me can be arranged. Of this I am resolved,—to get rid of you.' He would not say another word, and I left him, feeling more than half-mad with helpless rage—ay! and terror! I am no coward, I could face death as steadily as any man; but to leave my Elsie at the mercy of such a villain, with the stain of my public execution on her life, with the bitter knowledge that I had killed her real father, to blot out all tender, kindly recollection of me—no, I could not face that. Then to hand her over to a wretch who would destroy her if he could: that idea drove me wild. I tell you in my agony I half determined to put an end to her and to myself, as the best and most merciful mode of cutting the knot." He paused, shuddering. "No poor words can tell the horror of those days. I had more than one interview with Deering, and the calm way he affected to believe his own lies drove me wild. I urged that the disappearance of the large amount of money with which he was entrusted to give his cousin would tell against him. He said he had given the money to Gilbert, and that I had robbed him of it. I appealed to Vincent. Vincent coolly told me that I had shot Deering in the back. I was utterly powerless; all I could gain, was time.
"I pretended to take the proposition of giving her up to Deering into consideration. They thought I was going to yield. Then you came back, and I played a last card. I asked you to marry my Elsie. I thought she would be safe, and I'd go away and hide. But you couldn't, or wouldn't."
Glynn started up. "I don't know," he began.
"Let me finish," interrupted Lambert; "I have nearly done. I was desperate, and at bay. The thought came into my mind to hide my darling. I ran over to England, telegraphed to Mrs. Kellett to meet me at a neighboring town, and told her something of my difficulties. She knew my love for my child, and obeyed my instructions. I transferred all the money I could to her name. I took counsel with her as to where Elsie should stay, and when she (Mrs. Kellett) should come to Paris, and many details I haven't time to tell. A day or two before the ball Mrs. Kellett, down at her brother's place, was laid up with a severe cold, and was waited on by a faithful old servant who was partly in her confidence, and let no one else into her room; whereas in the night she had slipped out of the house and walked to the nearest station, where she caught the first train to London, and came through to Paris, bringing with her some English-made clothes to dress Elsie in. I did not warn my jewel, lest she should betray any uneasiness, but at the last moment I made her promise to come home from the ball,—not to go to Madame's. This between ourselves.
"Then I met her, and took her into the kitchen of the empty étage below us. I had to contrive to get hold of the key. She was terribly startled; but I made her believe her hiding was essential to my safety. She changed her clothes, and tried to eat something. We waited till I heard the concierge moving about, for the danger was in going out. I had brought Mrs. Kellett in with myself the night before as soon as the house was shut up, so that no voice but mine was heard when the concierge asked, 'Who was there?' Well, they got out exactly as that thief of a detective guessed, while the concierge was at the pump. They walked quietly along over the Pont d'Alma, where they got rid of the ball-dress, and near the Invalides took a fiacre; thus they got off by the first train.