“Yes,” he gasped, “yes.  I pray you be calm.”

“And you call that worse than losing my dearest friend on earth?” I cried.  There must have been an infinite scorn in my voice.  “Then your standards and mine are different, Mr. Manners.  Your ways and mine are different, and I thank God for it.  You have played more than one double part with me.  You looked me in the face and denied me, and left me to go to a prison.  I shall not repeat my grandfather’s kindnesses to you, sir.  Though you may not recall them, I do.  And if your treatment of me was known in Maryland, you would be drummed out of the colony even as Mr. Hood was, and hung in effigy”

“As God hears me, Richard—­”

“Do not add perjury to it,” I said.  “And have no uneasiness that I shall publish you.  Your wife and daughter have saved you before,—­they will save you now.”

I paused, struck speechless by a suspicion that suddenly flashed into my head.  A glance at the contemptible form cowering within the folds of the flowered gown clinched it to a conviction.  In two strides I had seized him by the skin over his ribs, and he shrieked with pain and fright.

“You—­you snake!” I cried, in uncontrollable anger.  “You well knew Dorothy’s spirit, which she has not got from you, and you lied to her.  Yes, lied, I say.  To force her to marry Chartersea you made her believe that your precious honour was in danger.  And you lied to me last night, and sent me in the dark to fight two of the most treacherous villains in England.  You wish they had killed me.  The plot was between you and his Grace.  You, who have not a cat’s courage, commit an indiscretion!  You never made one in your life, Tell me,” I cried, shaking him until his teeth smote together, “was it not put up between you?”

“Let me go!  Let me go, and I will tell!” he wailed in the agony of my grip.  I tightened it the more.

“You shall confess it first,” I said, from between my teeth.

Scarce had his lips formed the word yes, when I had flung him half across the room.  He tripped on his gown, and fell sprawling on his hands.  So the servant found us when he came back with the tray.  The lackey went out again hastily.

“My God!” I exclaimed, in bitterness and disgust; “you are a father, and would sell both your daughter and your honour for a title, and to the filthiest wretch in the kingdom?”

Without bestowing upon him another look, I turned on my heel and left the room.  I had set my foot on the stair, when I heard the rustle of a dress, and the low voice which I knew so well calling my name.

“Richard.”

There at my side was Dorothy, even taller in her paleness, with sorrow and agitation in her blue eyes.

“Richard, I have heard all.—­I listened.  Are you going away without a word for me?” Her breath came fast, and mine, as she laid a hand upon my arm.  “Richard, I do not care whether you are poor.  What am I saying?” she cried wildly.  “Am I false to my own father?  Richard, what have you done?”