"Not only do I deny, but I affirm, and I have my proofs. I have known for some time, not very long, it is true, that a man named Johann Strauss did assume my name when he married your sister. There is nothing remarkable in that. I am a rich man, known to many. The adoption of a pseudonym is a common device of actors. There was no real resemblance between this person Strauss and myself. Of that fact those who were well acquainted with him--Dibbin and Sarah Gissing--will assure you to-morrow in this house. I have your sister's marriage certificate, and the birth registration of her child. I know where the child is. I will bring the foster-mother to tell you that I was not the man who intrusted the infant to her care. I have your sister's diary, which this Harcourt did really secure. I got it from him by a trick, I admit, but only to save you from becoming his dupe. Now I have placed all my cards on the table, by the side of your marriage settlement. Can David Harcourt do as much?" The girl's lips quivered a little. What was she to believe? In whom was she to trust? She wanted to cry, but she dug her nails into her white hands; for the encircling clasp of David's arms still tingled on her shoulders. "Why do you tell me all this only when I force it from you?" she asked. "You answer your own question. You force it from me. Exactly I would prefer that my promised wife should have trust in me. I wished to spare you certain sordid revelations; but because some American adventurer happens upon a family tragedy and uses it for his own purposes--whether base or not I do not stop to inquire--you treat me as the one quite unworthy of belief. Violet, you hurt me more than you know." The man's voice broke. Tears stood in his eyes. The girl was nearly distraught under the stress of the struggle going on with her. "Henry Van Hupfeldt," she said solemnly, looking him straight in the face, "may the Lord judge between me and you if I have wronged you!" "No, sweet girl, you cannot wrong me; for my conscience is clear, but it is a hard thing that you should incline rather to this blackmailer than to me." "Blackmailer!" The ugly word came from her lips in sheer protest; the lash of a whip could not have stung as cruelly. "Yes, most certainly. Did he not demand a hundred pounds from you? Let me go to him and offer five hundred, and you will never see or hear of him again." "Oh, if that is so, there is no faith or honesty in the world." "Is _he_ your world, then?" demanded Van Hupfeldt, bitterly, and even Mrs. Mordaunt broke in with her moan: "Oh, Vi!"