Arthur Ferris' eyes flashed fire as Witherspoon, without a word, handed him the second document.
He essayed vainly to speak, but his parched tongue was powerless, his lips were fever-glued. Finally, the man who now feared a further stroke of malevolent fortune, said, in a low voice, "I desire a few words in private with Miss Worthington."
To the astonishment of the three men, Alice Worthington arose and glided into the rear drawing-room, where Ferris sprang to her side.
In low whispers he essayed to recall his lost bride to her perfunctory duties of wife. The men in the great front hall gazed at Fashion's throng sweeping by on the avenue as Ferris led his last trumps and endeavored to develop the hidden enemy's line of reserve.
His last hope failed when his legal wife quietly whispered, "Our union was brought about by treachery, duress, and fraud. Do you wish to proclaim your own share publicly? I know all now. I have all my father's dispatches, his cipher book, his telegrams from you, and the last, from Randall Clayton."
"You are my wife," fiercely whispered Ferris.
"In name only," defiantly replied Alice Worthington. "You will learn my father's last wishes later, and to your sorrow. You lied when you said that Clayton led a vile life. You poisoned my father's mind. Thank God! I am my own mistress now.
"I have friends who will protect me and punish you. I dare you ever to claim me as your wife. Beyond that mere civil ceremony, the sale of a soul for Senator Dunham's influence, you have never laid your hand in mine."
"You cannot frighten me, Madame," bitterly retorted Ferris. "I hold your father's good name in my power."
"Stop!" coldly rejoined the angered woman. "I have the whole history of the past. My father repaired the wrong done with his own hand, before his death.