It was Reginald who spoke in a dull, slow voice, with his face ghastly pale and his eyes fixed upon the cowering form of the woman before him. "My father! Is this true?" Patience tried to speak, but her tongue could not form the words, so Beaumont, with a devilish light in his eyes, answered for her. "Quite true. Your mother has told you." "My mother! You?" The young man looked from one to the other in a dazed manner, then, with a gasping cry, staggered forward and seized Patience by the arm. "Do you hear what this man says?" he said in a strained, unnatural voice. "That he is my father--that you are my mother! Is it true--tell me--is it true?" "It is true." A look of horror overspread his face, and flinging her away from him, with a cry of anguish he fell against the wall with white face and outstretched arms. "My God! it is true." His mother looked apprehensively at him for a moment, then fell on her knees weeping bitterly. "Spurn me--curse me--despise me!" she cried in a broken voice. "You have every right to do so. I am your unhappy mother and he is your father. I lied when I said Fanny Blake and the Squire were your parents. I lied at your father's instigation in order to gain you a fortune. He designed the conspiracy--I carried it out." "And I have been the dupe of both," interrupted Reginald fiercely, stepping forward with uplifted hand as if to strike her. "I don't believe this--it is a lie! You are my nurse." "I am your mother." The calm manner in which she made this assertion left no room for doubt, and Reginald Blake recoiled from that kneeling figure as if it had been a snake. "My mother!" he muttered convulsively. "Great Heavens! my mother!" Patience saw how he shrank from her, and a great wave of despair swept over her soul as she struggled forward on her knees, flinging out her arms towards him with a bitter cry. "Oh, forgive me--forgive me!" she wailed. "I did it for the best; I did, indeed. I denied you were my child in order to save your good name, and I only swore the lie about Fanny Blake in order to make you rich. Do not shrink from me, my son, I implore you. Think how I have suffered all these years--how I have sacrificed my life for your sake. Have pity, Reginald, as you hope for mercy. Have mercy!" Reginald Blake stood quiet for a moment, then, controlling himself by a powerful effort, raised her to her feet. As he did so she looked timidly at his face, but saw therein no pity, no tenderness; only the look of a man suffering agony. He placed her in a chair and, without looking at her, advanced towards the table. "Before I can believe this story," he said in a hard voice, "I require some proof of it. By the Squire's will the property was left to the person who produced a certain paper, written by him, and a ring. They were both found in his desk, directed to me. If I am not the Squire's son how did this happen?"