But her father, angered and grieved, turned fiercely upon her and ordered her from his presence.  “Go,” he said, “and do not come near me again until your boxes are packed and you are ready to leave Glencardine.”

“You speak as though I were a servant whom you’ve discharged,” she said bitterly.

“I am speaking to my enemy, not to my daughter,” was his hard response.

She raised her eyes to Flockart, and saw upon his dark face a hard, sphinx-like look.  What hope of salvation could she ever expect from that man—­the man who long ago had sought to estrange her from her father so that he might work his own ends?  It was upon her tongue to turn upon him and relate the whole infamous truth.  Yet so friendly had the two men become of late that she feared, even if she did so, that her father would only see in the revelation an attempt at reprisal.  Besides, what if Flockart spoke?  What if he told the awful truth?  Her own dear father, whom she loved so well, even though he had misjudged her, would be dragged into the mire.  No, she was the victim of that man, who was a past-master of the art of subterfuge; the man who, for years, had lived by his wits and preyed upon society.

“Leave us, and go to your room,” again commanded her father.

She looked sadly at the white, bespectacled countenance which she loved so well.  Her soft hand once more sought his; but he cast it from him, saying, “Enough of your caresses!  You are no longer my daughter!  Leave us!” And then, seeing all protest in vain, she sighed, turned very slowly, and with a last, lingering look upon the helpless man to whom she had been so devoted, and who now so grossly misjudged her, she tottered out, closing the door behind her.

“Has she gone?” asked Sir Henry a moment later.

Flockart responded in the affirmative, laying his hand upon the shoulder of his agitated host, and urging him to remain calm.

“That’s all very well, my dear Flockart,” he cried; “but you don’t know what she has done.  She exposed a week or so ago a most confidential arrangement with the Greek Government, a revelation which might have involved me in the loss of over a hundred thousand.”

“Then it’s fortunate, perhaps, that I discovered her to-night,” replied his guest.  “All this must be very painful to you, Sir Henry.”

“Very.  I shall not give her another opportunity to betray me, Flockart, depend upon that,” the elder man said.  “My wife warned me against Gabrielle long ago.  I now see that I was a fool for not taking her advice.”

“Certainly it’s a curious fact that Walter Murie is in Paris,” remarked the other.  “Was the revelation of your financial dealings made in Paris, do you know?”

“Yes, it was,” snapped the blind man.  “I believed Walter to be quite a good young fellow.”

“Ah, I knew different, Sir Henry.  His life up in London was not—­well, not exactly all that it should be.  He’s in with a rather shady crowd.”