“No,” he declared.  “It is fortunate indeed, Flockart, that you made this discovery, and thus placed me upon my guard.”  The poor deluded man little dreamt that on the occasion when Flockart had taken him down the drive to announce his departure from Glencardine on account of the gossip, and had drawn Sir Henry’s attention to his hanging watch-chain, he had succeeded in cleverly obtaining two impressions of the safe-key attached.  In his excitement, it had never occurred to him to ask his daughter by what means she had been able to open that steel door.

“Dad,” she faltered, advancing towards him and placing her soft, tender hand upon his shoulder, “won’t you listen to reason?  I assure you I am quite innocent of any attempt or intention to betray you.  I know you have many enemies;” and she glanced quickly in Flockart’s direction.  “Have we not often discussed them?  Have I not kept eyes and ears open, and told you of all I have seen and learnt?  Have——­”

“You have seen and learnt what is to my detriment,” he answered.  “All argument is useless.  A fortnight or so ago, by your aid, my enemies secured a copy of a certain document which has never left yonder safe.  To-night Mr. Flockart has discovered you again tampering with my safe, and with my own ears I heard you utter defiance.  You are more devoted to your lover than to me, and you are supplying him with copies of my papers.”

“That is untrue, dad,” protested the girl reproachfully.

But her father shook her hand roughly from his shoulder, saying, “I have already told you my decision, which is irrevocable.  To-morrow you shall leave Glencardine and go to your aunt Emily at Woodnewton.  You won’t have much opportunity for mischief in that dull little Northampton village.  I won’t allow you to remain under my roof any longer; you are too ungrateful and deceitful, knowing as you do the misery of my affliction.”

“But, father——­”

“Go to your room,” he ordered sternly.  “Tomorrow I will speak with your mother, and we shall then decide what shall be done.  Only, understand one thing:  in the future you are not my dear daughter that you have been in the past.  I—­I have no daughter,” he added in a voice harsh yet broken by emotion, “for you have now proved yourself an enemy worse even than those who for so many years have taken advantage of my helplessness.”

“Ah, dad, dad, you are cruel!” she cried, bursting again into a torrent of tears.  “You are too cruel!  I have done nothing!”

“Do you call placing me in peril nothing?” he retorted bitterly.  “Go to your room at once.  Remain with me, Flockart.  I want to speak to you.”

The girl saw herself convicted by those unfortunate words she had used—­words meant in defiance of her arch-enemy Flockart, but which had placed her in ignominy and disgrace.  Ah, if she could only stand firm and speak the ghastly truth!  But, alas! she dared not.  Flockart, the man who held her in his power, the man whom she knew to be her father’s bitterest opponent, a cheat and a fraud, stood there triumphant, with a smile upon his lips; while she, pure, honest, and devoted to that afflicted man, was denounced and outcast.  She raised her voice in one last word of faint protest.