Instantly the young girl arose again, stately and frigid as an iceberg.

She attempted to pass him and go to her own room, but he threw out his hand, seized her arm, and stopped her.

“Please do not go!” he urged, in an imploring tone.  “I have something which I want very much to say to you.”

Mona’s blood began to boil, and her eyes flashed dangerously at his presumption in daring to touch her.

She was too proud to struggle with him, and she could not shake off his hold upon her arm.

“Release me, Mr. Hamblin!” she said, in ominously quiet tones.

“Nay, do not treat me so!” he pleaded.  “Be kind to me for once, and let me open my heart to you.”

Her red lips curled.

“Will you let me pass?” she icily demanded.

He colored hotly at her tone; a flash of anger gleamed in his eyes.

“No.  Be seated, Miss Mona Montague; I have something important to say to you,” he said, in a tone that struck terror to her heart, while the utterance of her real name so startled and unnerved her that, almost involuntarily, she sank back into her chair, her face as white as her handkerchief, and trembling in every limb.

“Ah! that surprises you, doesn’t it?” he remarked, with a smile of triumph; “and now I imagine you will be more tractable.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Mona, recovering her composure somewhat, and determined not to commit herself, if she could avoid it.

“What do I mean?” he repeated, with a light laugh.  “I mean to have a little private and serious conversation with Miss Mona Montague; and when I have finished, I do not believe that she will treat me quite so cavalierly as she has been doing of late.”

“I do not wish to hold any conversation with you, Mr. Hamblin,” Mona began, haughtily.

“Perhaps not, but you will, nevertheless,” he interposed; “and, let me tell you, to begin with, it will be useless for you to ignore the name by which I have addressed you.  I have discovered your identity in spite of your clever efforts to represent some one else—­or rather to conceal your personality.  I know that you are Mona Montague, the daughter of my aunt’s husband and a girl named Mona Forester—­”

“Stay!” cried Mona, starting again to her feet, her eyes blazing.  “I will not hear my mother spoken of with any disrespect.”

“I beg your pardon; I had no intention of wounding you thus,” said the young man, regretfully, and flushing.  “I simply wished you to understand that I had discovered your identity; and since you have now virtually acknowledged it, by asserting that Mona Forester was your mother, I beg you will be reasonable, and talk the matter over calmly with me, and hear what I have to propose to you.”

Mona sank weakly back.

She saw that it would be worse than useless to deny what he had asserted; she had indeed betrayed and acknowledged too much for that.