“And my husband--your father--is not dead. If he is not here now, threatening our safety, it is because I have succeeded in eluding him. He lost all trace of us eighteen years ago. Since then he has been constantly striving to discover us, but in vain. He is still watching, you may be sure of that; and as soon as there is any talk of a law-suit respecting the Chalusse property, you will see him appear, armed with his rights. He is the head of the family--your master and mine. Ah! this seems to disturb you. You will find him full of insatiable greed for wealth, a greed which has been whetted by twenty years’ waiting. You may yet see the day when you will regret the paltry twenty thousand francs a year formerly given you by your poor mother.” Wilkie’s face was whiter than his shirt. “You are deceiving me,” he stammered. “To-morrow I will show you my marriage certificate.” “Why not this evening?” “Because it is locked up in a room which is now full of people.” “And what was my father’s name?” “Arthur Gordon--he is an American.” “Then my name is Wilkie Gordon?” “Yes.” “And---is my father rich?” he inquired. “No.” “What does he do?” “Everything that a man can do when he has a taste for luxury and a horror for work.” This reply was so explicit in its brevity, and implied so many terrible accusations, that Wilkie was dismayed. “The devil!” he exclaimed, “and where does he live!” “He lives at Baden or Homburg in the summer; in Paris or at Monaco in the winter.” “Oh! oh! oh!” ejaculated Wilkie, in three different tones. He knew what he had to expect from such a father as that. Anger now followed stupor--one of those terrible, white rages which stir the bile and not the blood. He saw his hopes and his cherished visions fade. Luxury and notoriety, high-stepping horses, yellow-haired mistresses, all vanished. He pictured himself reduced to a mere pittance, and held in check and domineered over by a brutal father. “Ah! I understand your game,” he hissed through his set teeth. “If you would only quietly assert your rights, everything could be arranged privately, and I should have time to put the property out of my father’s reach before he could claim it. Instead of doing that--as you hate me--you compel me to make the affair public, so that my father will hear of it and defraud me of everything. But you won’t play this trick on me. You are going to write at once, and make known your claim to your brother’s estate.” “No.” “Ah! you won’t? You refuse----” He approached threateningly, and caught hold of her arm. “Take care!” he vociferated; “take care! Do not infuriate me beyond endurance----” As cold and rigid as marble, Madame d’Argeles faced him with the undaunted glance of a martyr whose spirit no violence can subdue. “You will obtain nothing from me,” she said, firmly; “nothing, nothing, nothing!”