‘Uncle,’ cried Dulcie, ‘speak to him. Tell him it is not true.’
‘It is true,’ said Kilpatrick hoarsely.
Desmond, my boy, my son, speak to me!’
‘You!’’ said Desmond. ‘You—you are my father?’
Lord Kilpatrick tottered into the room and fell into a chair.
‘And my mother,’ said Desmond—‘my mother? What of her?’
‘She died, long years ago,’ said his lordship.
‘Who was she? Speak!’ cried Desmond—‘speak! I must know!’
‘She was named Moya Macartney,’ said Kilpatrick. ‘She was—she——’
‘She was not your wife?’ said the boy. ‘Then I am—I am what he called me!’