“Yes, strange as it may seem, I, your own husband, under his own roof, venture to visit you; a privilege you have not encouraged me in, I admit, but one I insist upon in this instance.”
The captain spoke calmly, and, whatever internal emotion he might have felt was concealed behind a cold, gleaming smile of determination and sorrowful triumph.
Avondale permitted his eye-glass to fall from its accustomed place, and started to arise. “Ah, really, sir,” said he, “I must be going. It is getting so late, I—”
“Remain where you are, sir!” said the captain, in deep, resolute tones. There was an iron ring in his voice that startled the Englishman. “Late as it may be,” the captain went on, “you have been in this room less than fifteen minutes. Subterfuges are unavailing.”
Lucy Osborn raised her queenly head, and, with one resentful glance at the old captain, hissed, “Spying on your wife is hardly in keeping with the dignity of a financier.”
“I have surrendered dignity, Lucy, in the hope of saving you,” replied the captain, calmly.
Her eyes flashed an angry glance at him. “What do you mean?” she stammered. “I don’t quite—” She broke off in silence, as her eyes met his sorrowful and yet scornful glance. There was something in the searching gaze of her husband that seemed to read the very secrets of her soul. It stung her proud heart with remorse.
Turning to Avondale, the captain said: “I ought to have killed you long ago, before this liaison with Mrs. Osborn began. I should have shot you to death like some vile cur, d—— you, and would have done so but for my little son.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Avondale, now thoroughly alarmed. “Really, sir, you are mis-tak—”
“Stop!” cried the captain, fiercely, “do not add to your dastardly crimes by lying. I know all. Give me the letter—the one which Mrs. Osborn wrote you this afternoon—in which she promised to give you some money.”