“What is that you say?” cried the man accused, glaring at her.  “Repeat those words, and I will tell the whole truth about yourself—­here, before your lover!”

The blind man frowned.  He hated scenes.  “Come, come,” he urged, “please do not quarrel.  Gabrielle, I think, dear, your words are scarcely fair to our friend.”

“Father,” she said firmly, her face pale as death, “I repeat them.  That man standing there is as much your enemy as he is mine!”

Flockart laughed satirically.  “Then I will tell my story, and let your father judge whether you are a worthy daughter,” he said.

CHAPTER XXXVI

IN WHICH GABRIELLE TELLS A STRANGE STORY

Gabrielle fell back in fear.  Her handsome countenance was blanched to the lips.  This man intended to speak—­to tell the terrible truth—­and before her lover too!  She clenched her hands and summoned all her courage.

Flockart laughed at her—­laughed in triumph.  “I think, Gabrielle,” he said, “that you should put an end to this deceit towards your poor blind father.”

“What do you mean?” cried Walter in a fury, advancing towards Flockart.  “What has this question—­whatever it is—­to do with you?  Is it your place to stand between father and daughter?”

“Yes,” answered the other in cool defiance, “it is.  I am Sir Henry’s friend.”

“His friend!  His enemy!”

“You are not my father’s friend, Mr. Flockart,” declared the girl, noticing the look of pain upon the afflicted old gentleman’s face.  “You have all along conspired against him for years, and you are actually conspiring with Lady Heyburn at this moment.”

“You lie!” he cried.  “You say this in order to shield yourself.  You know that your mother and I are aware of your crime, and have always shielded you.”

“Crime!” gasped Walter Murie, utterly amazed.  “What is this man saying, dearest?”

But the girl stood, blanched and rigid, her jaw set, unable to utter a word.

“Let me tell you briefly,” Flockart went on.  “Lady Heyburn and myself have been this girl’s best friends; but now I must speak openly, in defence of the allegation she is making against me.”

“Yes, speak!” urged Sir Henry.  “Speak and tell me the truth.”

“It is a painful truth, Sir Henry; would that I were not compelled to make such a charge.  Your daughter deliberately killed a young girl named Edna Bryant.  She poisoned her on account of jealousy.”

“Impossible!” cried Sir Henry, starting up.  “I—­I can’t believe it, Flockart.  What are you saying?  My daughter a murderess!”

“Yes, I repeat my words.  And not only that, but Lady Heyburn and myself have kept her secret until—­until now it is imperative that the truth should be told to you.”

“Let me speak, dad—­let me tell you——­”

“No,” cried the old man, “I will hear Flockart.”  And, turning to his wife’s friend, he said hoarsely, “Go on.  Tell me the truth.”