“You shall never see the child’s face!”
Then, Alixe Delavigne sprang up and faced him: “There she is! on my heart! Just what her mother was, before you sent her to an early grave. Valerie died hungering for one sight of that child’s face!” Throwing the picture of Nadine Johnstone on the table, the lady of Jitomir said: “Pierre Troubetskoi left to me the wealth which makes me your equal. I fear you not! I shall see Nadine to-morrow!”
“Never!” roared Hugh Johnstone, now beyond all control. “I defy you! Beware how you approach my threshold!” His eyes were murderous in their steely blue gleam, and, yet, he met a glance as steady as his own.
“Listen,” said Berthe Louison, sinking back into her chair, “I will tell you a little story.” Hugh Johnstone was now gazing at the photograph, which trembled in his hand. “Once upon a time a man secreted a vast deposit of jewels, really the spoil of a deposed king, and, rightly, the property of the victorious British Government!” The photograph fell to the floor as the old man sprang up from the chair, into which he had dropped. “This paper, the receipt for the deposit, once delivered to the Viceroy of India—and the Baronetcy which is to be your life crown is lost for ever.” The old man’s hands knotted themselves in anger. “The lying story that the deposit was stolen by an underling will bring you, Hugh Johnstone, to the felon’s cell! You shall live to wear the convict’s chain! The Government is partly aware of the facts. It rests for me to give the Viceroy the receipt for your private deposit. The private bank vault in Calcutta has hidden your shame for twenty years. You know the condition of your settlement with the Government. Now, shall I see my sister’s child? I hold your very existence here—in the hollow of my hand!” The dauntless woman drew forth a yellowed envelope from her breast. There was a smothered shriek, a crash and a groan, as Jules Victor, springing from his concealment, hurled the infuriated man to the floor!
With a knee on the panting nabob’s breast, he hissed:
“Move, and you are a dead man!”
“Take the paper, Madame,” calmly said the victorious Jules. Then Alixe Delavigne laughed scornfully.
“Let the fool arise. The contents are only blank paper. The document is where I can find it for use. Remain here, Jules,” concluded the triumphant woman, as she replaced the photograph in her bosom. “Take the envelope—you know it, Hugh Fraser. I stole it the night you drove the sister I loved from our miserly lodgings in London.” The furious onslaught had failed, and the old nabob was only a cowering, cringing prisoner at will. He dared not even cry out.
Hugh Johnstone groaned as his eyes turned from the woman, now laughing him to scorn, to the stern-faced Frenchman, who was covering the baffled assailant with the grim Lefacheux revolver.
“Send this man away. Let us talk, Alixe,” muttered the astounded Johnstone. Then a mocking laugh rang out in the room.