"Major Murchison, put your cards on the table. You have come into this house, an old friend of my husband's; I have done my best to make you welcome. But you have some spite against me. Of what do you accuse me?"
"I will put my cards on the table," answered Hugh in his inflexible voice. "On the night I met you at Carlton House Terrace I had my suspicions; no two women could be so exactly alike. Since that night I have been picking up information here and there. I have now got a complete chain of evidence."
"Evidence of what?" she gasped, still pursuing her restless walk up and down the room. "Of my having met Tommie Esmond at Charing Cross Station? would you like to hear the true history of that?"
"I shall be pleased to hear any explanation you like to offer, with the reservation that I must please myself as to whether I accept it or not."
"You are very hard, Major Murchison. As you are not prepared to believe me, perhaps it would be better if I did not embark on this history. But Tommie Esmond is really my uncle, my mother's brother. When I was in low water he was very kind to me. I could not turn my back on him in his distress." She spoke with sudden passion. "Of course, you, with your pharisaical way of looking at things, would say I should have forgotten all his previous kindness."
"The Tommie Esmond affair is, comparatively, a trivial one, Mrs. Spencer. I am coming in a moment to graver issues. You still say that the name of Murchison conveys nothing to you. Oh, think well before you answer! Remember, I have told you I have overwhelming evidence. And, believe me, the task I have set out upon is far from a welcome one."
"I still say that the name of Murchison conveys nothing to me." She spoke with a certain air of assurance, but he could see that she was quivering all over.
"Carry your memory back to that night at Blankfield when your so-called brother, George Burton, was arrested on a charge of forgery. You had been his decoy and accomplice in a gambling saloon in Paris. You had inveigled my poor friend, Jack Pomfret, into a clandestine marriage a few days before. Jack, unable to survive his folly and disgrace, blew his brains out. If not in the eyes of the law, you were, morally, a murderess."
"You are mad, raving mad!" she cried, but her voice seemed strangled as she made the bold denial.
"Not mad, Mrs. Spencer, but very sane, as I will show you in a few seconds. As I told you, I recognised you that night at the South-leigh dinner-party, in spite of the pains you had taken to camouflage yourself. But I waited for corroborative evidence. The detective who arrested your so-called brother, George Burton, has seen you and is prepared to swear to your identity as Norah Burton."