“Then you will no longer be faithful to me—­you will transact no more business for me,” Mrs. Montague asserted, with angry brow and compressed lips.

“Very well, if that is your decision I must submit to it,” was the imperturbable response.  “And now, madame, I ask you, once for all, to tell me the name of the man whom Mona Forester married?”

“I will not.”

“Then let me tell you what conclusion I have drawn from what I have learned during this interview,” said Mr. Corbin, as he leaned forward and looked straight into the woman’s flashing eyes.  “You have said you hated her because she ruined your life—­because she loved the man you loved.  You have refused to tell me the name of that man.  You can have but one reason in thus withholding this information—­that motive is fear; therefore, I infer that Mona Forester was the first wife of your husband—­her child was your husband’s daughter.”

“Prove it, then!” cried his companion, with a scornful, though nervous, laugh.  “Find the marriage certificate—­find the witnesses who saw them married, the clergyman who performed the ceremony, the church register where their names are recorded, if you can.”

“I believe they will be found in good time,” confidently asserted Mr. Corbin, as he arose the second time to leave; “and, madame, if such proofs are found do you comprehend what the result will be?  Not only will Mona Forester’s child inherit the fortune left by Homer Forester, but also the bulk of your deceased husband’s property.”

“Never! for no one in this world can prove that Mona Forester was ever legally married, and—­I defy you to do your worst,” hoarsely cried Mrs. Montague, with lips that were almost livid, while she trembled visibly with mingled excitement, fear, and anger.

But the gentleman had no desire to discuss the matter further.  He simply bade her a courteous good-evening, and then quietly left the house.

“It is the strangest affair that I ever had anything to do with,” he muttered, as he walked briskly down the street.  “The girl’s story must be true, for it tallies exactly with the woman’s admissions this evening.  There must be proof somewhere, too.  Can it be possible,” he went on, with a start, “that they are in Mrs. Montague’s hands?  If so, she is liable to destroy them, and thus plunge my pretty little client into endless trouble.  It is strange that her uncle, Dinsmore, could not have been more sensible and left some definite information regarding the child.  But I am going to do my best for her, and though I never had quite so mysterious a case before, I believe the very obscurity which invests it only adds interest to it.”

Mrs. Montague was in a terrible passion after her lawyer had left.  She sprang to her feet and paced the floor from end to end, with angry steps, her face almost convulsed with malice and hatred.