“Take it, impostor!” I cried, placing it in her hand, that closed on it with a horrible eagerness. “I never intended to keep it. Gold made under the same roof that covers such as you must be accursed.”
So saying, heedless of the nervous effort she made to detain me, I stumbled down the stairs and walked hastily home.
The next morning, while I was in my office, smoking my matutinal cigar, and speculating over the singular character of my acquaintances of last night, the door opened, and Marion Blakelock entered. She had the same look of terror that I had observed the evening before, and she panted as if she had been running fast.
“Father has got out of bed,” she gasped out, “and insists on going on with his alchemy. Will it kill him?”
“Not exactly,” I answered coldly. “It were better that he kept quiet, so as to avoid the chance of inflammation. However, you need not be alarmed; his burns are not at all dangerous, although painful.”
“Thank God! thank God!” she cried, in the most impassioned accents; and, before I was aware of what she was doing, she seized my hand and kissed it.
“There, that will do,” I said, withdrawing my hand; “you are under no obligations to me. You had better go back to your father.”
“I can’t go,” she answered. “You despise me—is it not so?”
I made no reply.
“You think me a monster—a criminal. When you went home last night, you were wonderstruck that so vile a creature as I should have so fair a face.”