Carefully, slowly, giving each word its value, Mr. Hallowell raised his voice in entreaty.
“Kate,” he cried, “I have made a new will, leaving the money to the poor. The old will gives it to Helen. Shall I sign the new will or not? Shall I give the money to Helen, or the Institute? Answer me! Yes or no.”
Before the eyes of all, the apparition, as though retreating to the cabinet, swayed backward, then staggered forward. There was a sob, human, heart-broken, a cry, thrilling with distress; a tumult of weeping, fierce and uncontrollable.
They saw the figure tear away the white kerchief and cap, and trample them upon the floor. They saw the figure hold itself erect. From it, the voice of Vera cried aloud, in despair.
“I can’t! I can’t!” she sobbed. “It’s a lie! I am not your sister! Turn on the lights,” the girl cried. “Turn on the lights!”
There was a crash of upturned chairs, the sound of men struggling, and the room was swept with light. In the doorway Winthrop was holding apart Vance and the reporter.
In the centre of the room stood Vera, her head bent in shame, her body shaken and trembling, her hair streaming to her waist.
As though to punish herself, by putting a climax to her humiliation, she held out her arms to Helen Coates. “You see,” she cried, “I am a cheat. I am a fraud!” She sank suddenly to her knees in front of Mr. Hallowell. “Forgive me,” she sobbed, “forgive me!”
With a cry of angry protest, Winthrop ran to her and lifted her to her feet. His eyes were filled with pity. But in the eyes of Mr. Hallowell there was no promise of pardon. With sudden strength he struggled to his feet and stood swaying, challenging those before him. His face was white with anger, his jaw closed against mercy.
“You’ve lied to me!” he cried. “You’ve tried to rob me!” He swept the room with his eyes. With a flash of intuition, he saw the trap they had laid for him. “All of you!” he screamed. “It’s a plot!” He shook his fist at the weeping girl. “And you!” he shouted hysterically, “the law shall punish you!”