Gabrielle was chatting gaily with her father in an endeavour to cheer him up, when suddenly the door opened, and Flockart, still in his travelling ulster, entered, exclaiming, "Good-morning, Sir Henry."
"Why, my dear Flockart, this is really quite unexpected. I—I thought you were abroad," cried the Baronet, his face brightening as he stretched out his hand for his visitor to grasp.
"So I have been. I only got back to town yesterday morning, and left
Euston last night."
"Well," said Sir Henry, "I'm very glad you are here again. I've missed you very much—very much indeed. I hope you'll make another long stay with us at Glencardine."
The man addressed raised his eyes to Gabrielle's.
She looked him straight in the face, defiant and unflinching. The day of her self-sacrifice to protect her helpless father's honour and welfare had come. She had suffered much in silence—suffered as no other girl would suffer; but she had tried to conceal the bitter truth. Her spirit had been broken. She was obsessed by one fear, one idea.
For a moment the girl held her breath. Walter saw the sudden change in her countenance, and wondered.
Then, with a calmness that was surprising, she turned to her father, and in a clear, distinct voice said, "Dad, now that Mr. Flockart has returned, I wish to tell you the truth concerning him—to warn you that he is not your friend, but your very worst enemy!"
"What is that you say?" cried the man accused, glaring at her. "Repeat those words, and I will tell the whole truth about yourself—here, before your lover!"
The blind man frowned. He hated scenes. "Come, come," he urged, "please do not quarrel. Gabrielle, I think, dear, your words are scarcely fair to our friend."