“So you shut the door softly and said: 

“‘Yes, it’s I, Mr. Callingham,’” I continued all aglow, and looking into his eyes for confirmation. “’And I’ve come to tell you a fact that may surprise you.  Prepare for strange news.  Richard Wharton has returned to England!’

“I knew Richard Wharton was mamma’s first husband, who was dead before I was born, as I’d always been told:  and I sat there aghast at the news:  it was so sudden, so crushing.  I’d heard he’d been wrecked, and I thought he’d come to life again; but as yet I didn’t suspect what was all the real meaning of it.

“But papa drew back, I could hear, in a perfect frenzy of rage, astonishment, and terror.

“‘Richard Wharton!’ he hissed out between his teeth, springing away like one stung.  ’Richard Wharton come back!  You liar!  You sneak!  He’s dead this twenty years!  You’re trying to frighten me.’

“I never meant to overhear your conversation.  But at that, it was so strange, I drew back and cowered even closer.  I was afraid of papa’s voice.  I was afraid of his rage.  He spoke just like a man who was ready to murder you.

“Then you began to talk with papa about strange things that astonished me—­strange things that I only half understood just then, but that by the light of what you’ve told me to-day I quite understand now—­the history of my real father.

“‘I’m no liar,’ you answered.  ’Richard Wharton has come back.  And by the aid of what he’s disclosed, I know the whole truth.  The girl you call your daughter, and whose money you’ve stolen, is not yours at all.  She’s Richard Wharton’s daughter Mary!’

“Papa staggered back a pace or two, and came quite close to the screen.  I cowered behind it in alarm.  I could see he was terrified.  For a minute or two you talked with him, and urged him to confess.  Bit by bit, as you went on, he recovered his nerve, and began to bluster.  He didn’t deny what you said:  he saw it was no use:  he just sneered and prevaricated.

“As I listened to his words, I saw he admitted it all.  A great horror came over me.  Then my life was one long lie!  He was never my father.  He had concocted a vile plot.  He had held me in this slavery so many years to suit his own purposes.  He had crushed my mother to death, and robbed me of my birthright.  Even before that night, I never loved him.  I thought it very wicked of me, but I never could love him.  As he spoke to you and grew cynical, I began to loathe and despise him.  I can’t tell you how great a comfort it was to me to know—­to hear from his own lips I was not that man’s daughter.

“At last, after many recriminations, he looked across at you, and said, half laughing, for he was quite himself again by that time: 

“’This is all very fine, Courtenay Ivor—­all very fine in its way; but how are you going to prove it? that’s the real question.  Do you think any jury in England will believe, on your unsupported oath, such a cock-and-bull story?  Do you think, even if Richard Wharton’s come back, and you’ve got him on your side, I can’t cross-examine all the life out of his body?’