“Folly!” echoed the blind man.  “This is more than folly!  Gabrielle and her lover have conspired to bring about my ruin.  I have had suspicions for several weeks; now, alas! they are confirmed.  Walter Murie is in Paris at this moment in order to make money out of the secret knowledge which Gabrielle obtains for him.  My own daughter is responsible for my betrayal!” he added, in a voice broken by emotion.

“No, no, Sir Henry!” urged Flockart.  “Surely the outlook is not so black as you foresee.  Gabrielle has acted injudiciously; but surely she is still devoted to you and your interests.”

“Yes,” cried the girl in desperation, “you know I am, dad.  You know that I——­”

“It is useless, Flockart, for you to endeavour to seek forgiveness for Gabrielle,” declared her father in a firm, harsh voice, “Quite useless.  She has even endeavoured to deny the statement you have made—­tried to deny it when I actually heard with my own ears her defiant declaration that she was prepared to bear her shame and all its consequences!  Let her do so, I say.  She shall leave Glencardine to-morrow, and have no further opportunity to conspire against me.”

“Oh, father, what are you saying?” she cried in despair, bursting into tears.  “I have not conspired.”

“I am saying the truth,” went on the blind man.  “You and your lover have formed another clever plot, eh?  Because I have not sight to watch you, you will copy my business reports and send them to Walter Murie, who hopes to place them in a certain channel where he can receive payment.  This is not the first time my business has leaked out from this room.  Only a short time ago certain confidential documents were offered to the Greek Government, but fortunately they were false ones prepared on purpose to trick any one who had designs upon my business secrets.”

“I swear I am in ignorance of it all.”

“Well, I have now told you plainly,” the old man said.  “I loved you, Gabrielle, and until this moment foolishly believed that you were devoted to me and to my interests.  I trusted you implicitly, but you have betrayed me into the hands of my enemies—­betrayed me,” he wailed, “in such a manner that only ruin may face me.  I tell you the hard and bitter truth.  I am blind, and ever since your return from school you have acted as my secretary, and I have looked at the world only through your eyes.  Ah,” he sighed, “but I ought to have known!  I should never have trusted a woman, even though she be my own daughter.”

The girl stood with her blanched face covered by her hands.  To protest, to declare that Flockart’s story was a lie, was, she saw, all to no purpose.  Her father had overheard her bold defiance and had, alas! most unfortunately taken it as an admission of her guilt.

Flockart stood motionless but watchful; yet by the few words he uttered he succeeded in impressing the blind man with the genuineness of his friendship both for father and for daughter.  He urged forgiveness, but Sir Henry disregarded all his appeals.