“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed his companion viciously, and with peculiar emphasis. “Your poor mother, perhaps, realized more than you seem to imagine she did; she was glad enough to get you housed in a respectable home, without being too particular about the conditions.”
Clifford sprang erect, stung to the soul by the insinuating tone and words of his companion.
“What do you mean, sir?” he demanded, in a voice that shook with suppressed anger. “What is it that you mean to imply in connection with my mother, who was one of the purest and loveliest of women?”
“Oh, nothing—nothing!” retired the squire, with a sinister smile, “only it is pretty evident that she never told you much about her early life, while—ahem!—if I’m not mistaken, you never saw your father, did you?”
“No,” and now Clifford was deathly white and his eyes wore a hunted look, as a terrible suspicion flashed into his mind. “Oh, what do you mean?”
“Well, perhaps it will be just as well for your peace of mind, my aspiring young man, if you don’t get too inquisitive,” the man retorted maliciously. “I can tell you this much, however: Your mother, Belle Abbott, as she was known in her younger days, was one of the handsomest girls I ever saw; but she was a—coquette; she had more beaux than you could shake a stick at, and she got her pay for it in the end.”
“Did you know my mother when she was a girl?” queried Clifford, with a look of astonishment.
“I should say I did,” was the grim response.
“And—my father also?” said the youth eagerly.