"Then it was _you_!" he gasped, with a recoil of horror.

"It was a blow in my defence," she said, with a glance full of meaning.

"It would not become me to save myself at the expense of the one who dealt it."

His eyes flashed, but she looked at him steadily. "Do you _know_ who struck that blow?" he asked.

"To tell you would not add to your store of knowledge," she retorted.

"Have you more to say, Mr. Warburton?"

"More? yes. Who are these Francoises? What are they to you?"

Her answer came with slow deliberation. "They call themselves my father and mother."

"My G.o.d!"

"It is true. I was adopted by the Ulimans. My husband and Mr.

Follingsbee were aware of this. It seems that I was given to the Ulimans by these people."

She had aimed this blow at his pride, but that pride was swallowed up by his consternation. As she watched his countenance, the surprise changed to incredulity, the incredulity to contempt. Then he said, dryly:

"Your story is excellent, but too improbable. Will you answer a few more questions?"

"Ask them."

"On the night of the masquerade you received here, in your husband's house, by appointment, a man disguised in woman's apparel."

"Well?"

"You admit it? Do you know how I effected my escape that night?"

"I do. A brave man came to your rescue."

"Precisely; and this 'brave man', is the same who was present at the masquerade; is it not so?"

"It is."

"Who is this man?"

"I decline to answer."

"What is he to you, then?"

"What he is to all who know him: a brave, true man; a gentleman."

"Hem! You have an exalted opinion of this--this _gentleman_."

"And so should you have, since he saved your life, and what you value more, your reputation. And now listen: this same man has bidden me tell you, has bidden me warn you, that dangers surround you on every hand; that Van Vernet has traced the resemblance between you and the Sailor of that night; that he will hunt you down if possible. Your safety depends upon your success in baffling his efforts to identify you with that Sailor."

"Your _friend_ is very thoughtful," he sneered.

She turned toward the door with an air of weariness.

"This is our last interview," she said coldly; "have you more to say?"

He made a quick stride toward the door, and placing himself before it, let his enforced calmness fall from him like a mantle of snow from a statue of fire, with all his hatred and disgust concentrated in the low, metallic tones in which he addressed her.

"I have only this to say: Your plans, which as yet I only half comprehend, will fail utterly. You fancy, perhaps, that this snare, into which I have fallen, will fetter my hands and prevent me from undoing your work. I cannot give life to the victim whose death lies at your door, the husband who was slain by your sin, but I can rescue your later victim, if her life, too, has not been sacrificed. As for these two wretches, whose parental claim is a figment of your own imagination, and this _lover_, who is the abettor, possibly the instigator, of your crimes, I shall find him out--"

"Stop," she cried wildly, "I command you, _stop_!"

"Ah, that touches you! I repeat, I shall find him out. To succeed, you should have concealed his existence as effectually as you have concealed poor little Daisy."

A death-like pallor overspreads the face of the woman before him. She stretches out her arms imploringly, her form sways as if she were about to fall, and she utters a wailing cry.

"As _I_ have concealed Daisy? Oh, my G.o.d; my G.o.d! I see! I understand!

My weakness, my folly, has done its work. I _have_ killed my husband! I _have_ brought a curse upon little Daisy! I _have_ endangered your life and honor! _I_ conceal our Daisy? Hear me, Heaven; henceforth I am nameless, homeless, friendless, until I have found Daisy Warburton and restored her to you!"

Her voice died in a low wail. She makes a forward movement, and then falls headlong at the feet of her stern accuser. For the second time in all her life, Leslie Warburton has fainted.

One moment Alan Warburton stands looking down upon her, a cynical half smile upon his lips. Then he turns and pulls the bell.

"Mrs. Warburton is in a swoon," he says to the servant who appears.

"Call some one to her a.s.sistance."

And without once glancing backward, he strides from the library.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

ALAN "EVOLVES" A PLAN OF ACTION.

Kind hands brought Leslie back to life, and to a new sense of pain, for even the hands that love us must sometimes hurt, when they hope to heal.

Every servant of the household loved its fair mistress. And while those who could, bustled to and fro, commanded by Winnie, each eager to minister to so kind a mistress, and those who were superfluous went about with anxious, sympathetic faces, Alan Warburton, the one unpitying soul in all that household, paced his room restlessly, troubled and anxious--not because of Leslie's illness, but because of the revelation just received from her lips.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I cannot give life to the victim whose death lies at your door."--page 251.]

Could this thing be true? Had his brother Archibald, a Warburton of the Warburton's--that family so old, so proud, so pure; that family whose men had always been gentlemen whom the world had delighted to honor; whose women had been queens of society, stately, high-bred, above reproach--_could_ Archibald Warburton have made a _mesalliance_? And such a _mesalliance_! The daughter of a pair of street mendicants, social outlaws; an adventuress with no name, no lineage, no heritage save that of shame.

"Of all the notable things of earth The queerest one is pride of birth."

For the moment it outweighed his grief for Archibald, his anxiety for Daisy, his very humanity. Later on, he might be Warburton the friend, and the truest of friends; Warburton the lover, and the tenderest, the most chivalrous of lovers; Warburton the champion, as on the night when he rescued Leslie; but now he is only Warburton the aristocrat; the aristocrat, insulted, defied, betrayed; brought into contact with mystery, _intrigue_, base blood, and in his own household. Could he ever forgive Leslie Warburton? Would he, if he could?

He had accused her as the cause of his brother's death, as the source of the mystery which overhung the fate of little Daisy; and in his heart of hearts he believed her guilty. And now, her daring, her cool effrontery, had made some hitherto mysterious movements plain. Her father and mother, those wretches who lived in a hovel, and smelled of the gutter!

But she had betrayed herself. These people must be found at whatever hazard.