"Shut up!" he commanded, brutally. "You don't know what you are talking about, my fine lady. I'll teach you some day to call your own father a scoundrel. I'll teach you—"
"What are you saying?"
"That which is true. You never heard the story, did you? You thought only that I was familiar with a small slice of the past history of your family, but it never occurred to you that the Mexican whom you detested, in spite of all your expressions to the contrary, was in reality your own father. And this girl whom you have called a murderess is your sister! Do you hear that, my girl?"
"You are mad—mad!" panted Jessica.
Meriaz laughed aloud.
"Look in your mother's face and see if I am mad. Look in her face and ask her if I have lied. Look in her face and bid her tell you that I am not your father. Aha! you dare not, because you know I have spoken the truth. You are my daughter, and as such I propose that you shall be regarded in the future. You understand?"
But Jessica did not reply. She stood there for a moment, looking straight at him in a stunned, stupid silence; then, with never a word, she walked by him and up the stairs without a glance in her mother's direction, without a word of sympathy, without a thought for any one save herself, and up to her own room.
She closed the door behind her, and stood with her back against it for some time, then with a defiant gesture threw up her head and walked swiftly to her writing desk. She sat down and wrote hurriedly:
"My Dear Dudley,—A week ago you asked me to be your wife—swore you could not live without me. If it was the truth you spoke, if you meant the vows you swore that day, answer this note in person. I must see you at once.
"Ever faithfully,
"Jessica."
She sealed it, the smile half triumphant, half defiant still lingering upon her lips, called a messenger, and dispatched it at once to Dudley Maltby.