Frank bowed.  Even McDermott was forced to admire his serene manner.

“Miss Dulany told me last night of her obligation to you.”

Frank waited with no change of expression for Dermott to proceed.

“She said she desired her money obligation to be paid immediately.”

“It is an affair of small moment,” Frank answered.

“You know, perhaps, that my cousin, Madame de Nemours, left her property to Miss Dulany?”

“I heard of it at the time,” Frank returned.

“And named me as executor,” Dermott explained.

“A fact which escaped me,” Ravenel answered, suavely.

“It has taken some time to settle the estate,” Dermott continued, “because of a certain claim which, if proven, makes the estate a very valuable one.  This claim nearly concerns you.”

“Go on,” Frank said, briefly, discourteously as well.

“I do not know,” Dermott continued, “whether you are aware or not that your father made an earlier marriage than the one with your mother.”

An ominous chill passed over Frank, though he answered, bravely, “I was not.”

“When he was living at Tours he married a girl, an Irish girl, who ran away from a convent to become his wife.  She was but sixteen at the time.  Her name was Patricia McDermott, my cousin, afterward the Countess de Nemours.”

Frank continued to listen, but, although his eyes held keen apprehension and his face was white, he showed a fine courage.

“My uncle, her father, was an ardent Roman Catholic,” Dermott explained, “a gloomy, overfed, and melancholy man who never forgave his daughter.  In a short time your father seemed to have”—­Dermott coughed—­“tired of the affair,” he explained, lightly, “and, his studies being finished, he left his wife and child and returned to America.  I do not desire to dwell on the misery of my cousin and her child.  She was cared for by some poor folks; my uncle gave her a death-bed forgiveness; the child died, and in process of time she married the Count de Nemours.  After the death of her second husband, she gave me full charge of her affairs, and among her papers I found documents relating to this early marriage.  The year before your father’s death I met him, quite by accident, in New York.  The name was familiar to me.  I asked questions, found he was married and had a son, yourself.

“Mr. Ravenel,” Dermott changed his tone of recital to a more intimate one, “to speak truth, the matter is inexplicable to me.  Your father was a brilliant man; a man of the world who, if he had no religious scruples on the subject of bigamy, must have had respect for law.  Why,” Dermott rose from the table by which he had been sitting, and stood directly facing Frank—­“why he should have made a second marriage, with a wife and child living in France, is beyond explanation.”

Frank drew back, his face colorless, his lips drawn, and, as the horrid import of the news became clear, “Ah, God!” he whispered; and then, with memory of his father uppermost, “It’s a damned lie!” he cried.