Lord Arranmore, unruffled, permitted himself to smile.

“Dear me,” he said, “this is getting positively melodramatic.  Brooks, for her own sake, let me beg of you to induce the young woman to leave us.  In her calmer moments she will, I am sure, repent of these unwarranted statements to a perfect stranger.”

Brooks was numbed—­for the moment speechless.  Sybil had risen to her feet as though with the intention of leaving the room.  But Lord Arranmore interposed.  If he were acting it was marvellously done.

“I beg,” he said, “that you will none of you desert me.  These accusations of—­Miss Scott, I believe are unnerving.  A murderer, a swindler and a rogue are hard names, young lady.  May I ask if your string of invectives is exhausted, or is there any further abuse which you feel inclined to heap upon me?”

The girl never flinched.

“I have called you nothing,” she said, “which you do not deserve.  Do you still deny that you were in Canada—­in Montreal—­sixteen years ago?”

“Most assuredly I do deny it,” he answered.

Brooks started, and turned suddenly towards Lord Arranmore as though doubtful whether he had heard rightly.  This was a year before his father’s death.  The girl was unmoved.

“I see that I should come here with proofs,” she exclaimed.  “Well, they are easy enough to collect.  You shall have them.  But before I go, Lord Arranmore, let me ask you if you know who I am.”

“I understand,” Lord Arranmore answered, “that you are the daughter or niece of a highly respectable tradesman in Medchester, who is a client of our young friend here, Mr. Brooks.  Let me tell you, young lady, that but for that fact I should not—­tolerate your presence here.”

“I am Mr. Bullsom’s niece,” the girl answered, “but I am the daughter of Martin Scott Cartnell!”

It seemed to Brooks that a smothered exclamation of some sort broke from Lord Arranmore’s tightly compressed lips, but his face was so completely in the shadow that its expression was lost.  But he himself now revealed it, for touching a knob in the wall a shower of electric lamps suddenly glowed around the room.  He leaned forward and looked intently into the face of the girl who had become his accuser.  She met his gaze coldly, without flinching, the pallor of her cheeks relieved by a single spot of burning colour, her eyes bright with purpose.

“It is incredible,” he said, softly, “but it is true.  You are the untidy little thing with a pigtail who used always to be playing games with the boys when you ought to have been at school.  Come, I am glad to see you.  Why do you come to me like a Cassandra of the Family Herald?  Your father was my companion for a while, but we were never intimate.  I certainly neither robbed nor murdered him.”

“You did both,” she answered, fiercely.  “You were his evil genius from the first.  It was through you he took to drink, through you he became a gambler.  You encouraged him to play for stakes larger than he could afford.  You won money from him which you knew was not his to lose.  He came to you for help.  You laughed at him.  That night he shot himself.”