But she was not dead.
The fates seemed conspiring against her.
She lifted her head, but not an idea could penetrate the mental darkness about her.
For the first time her composure failed her.
Her tongue seemed cleaving to her mouth, her lips were dry and parched.
She had hoped, but the hope was dying.
"Evelyn," Mr. Chandler said slowly, "granting what you have said to be the truth, how do you reconcile the fact of your mother's name having been Mauprat to the story you have told? We adopted you, my wife and I, and we never saw your mother again, but the papers of adoption gave her name as Eleanor Mauprat, and the certificate of your birth, and of her false marriage to your father, tells the rest. Can you explain those truths away? I don't want to be hard with you. I want to give you every chance that lies in my power, but I will not protect a woman who would rob her best friend, who would condemn her sister, as the monster they make you appear has done; who would stop at no wrong however great, to save herself from a humiliation that at worst could have been but the sting of an hour. If this thing is true, and that man were really your father, was the fault yours? Were you not so much the more to be sympathized with, that your birth rested under such a cloud? If you had but trusted to me, do you not know that I would have protected you?"
Very slowly she arose from her chair and stood before him.
Her color had returned until a spot of crimson burned in either cheek.
The timidity of her manner had vanished.