CHAPTER XXXI.

By courtesy of the captain, Miss Evelyn Chandler was allowed to receive a guest who had called upon her, in his private office.

She had expected to see Lynde Pyne, and had prepared her manner of receiving him; but as the door opened she staggered back before the pale, haggard face that confronted her.

"You!" she exclaimed, as the door was closed, and she found herself alone with the man who had been a father to her, and whom she had so grossly deceived. "I--I--did not expect you quite so soon! Did you receive my note?"

All the usual bluster seemed gone from the man's manner.

One would scarcely have recognized Leonard Chandler in the subdued, pale man that stood before Evelyn; but there was something about him that frightened her more than that had ever done. She trembled as his eyes held hers, and catching by the back of a chair, let herself down in it as though to release her hold meant a fall.

"I have received nothing!" he answered gravely. "What information I have had came to me from the newspapers, confirmed by the fact that you were not in your room this morning, nor had you been all night! I have come for a denial of the shameful story that has been published from you, and for irrefutable proof of that denial!"

He spoke calmly, but the most disinterested could have seen how he was suffering.

His pride had been cut to the quick; besides which, he loved the girl who had been one of his household since her childhood, and who had taken the place of the daughter that he had so much craved, but that had not been given him.

Evelyn fancied she saw some hope in his sorrow.

She clasped her hands pleadingly before her.

"I know that appearances are terribly against me!" she cried desperately. "I have no proof that I can bring forward in my own defense, but I am innocent. It is a hideous plot that they have concocted to deprive me of my honor, and to rob you of your money. If you will only help me, I am quite sure that we can find a way to prove how false it is."

He heaved a sigh that contained a note of relief.

"If I am to help you, and of course you know that if you are innocent I will do that to the expenditure of the last dollar that I possess in the world, you must answer my questions clearly and truthfully," he said, passing his hand across his brow wearily. "I shall not try to conceal from you how this has hurt me. It has stung my pride and pierced my heart. My wife is in bed under the shock of it all, for she has loved you as well as though you had been in reality her child. We must begin at the beginning and take matters as they came. Why were you in that house last night?"

"The woman, Liz, to whom I had been kind, sent for me!"

"And you went in the night without ordering the carriage? You went to that part of the city alone? Listen to me, Evelyn! You know how anxious I am to do for you anything that lies in my power, but I will not assist you in a lie, and that is one! You must tell the truth, if you expect anything from me in return."

"Then listen to me, and I _will_ tell you the truth whatever the cost to myself. You know that I am not your child. I knew that fact. One day a man came to me--such a terrible man that no words could ever describe him to you. He told me that he was my father. He told me the most odious secret of my birth, and in my terror I allowed him to see that I knew little of my own antecedents, and that he could work upon my fears. It continued until I wrote him that first letter that you saw copied in the papers.

"Then I discovered that what he had said was a lie from the beginning. He had known my mother and knew the story of my adoption, determining to work upon that to extract money from me. I found it out in time, and forced him to admit that it was true. Then he forged the other letters that you saw printed. Last night I received a letter from his wife telling me that he had been arrested, and that she had found those letters. She offered to place them in my hands if I would go there for them, assuring me that she would not deliver them to a messenger for fear of their never reaching me. I went; you know the rest."

For a long time Leonard Chandler was silent.

The story had been dramatically told, and it seemed to him that it might be the truth.

With all the heart he had he hoped it was, and there was something like eagerness in his voice as he put his next question.

"Where is the letter that the woman sent you?"

She colored.

"I--I destroyed it," she stammered.

"Destroyed it! Why? Wait a minute! The papers stated that the woman jumped from the window a few hours after the arrest of her husband, crazed by the death of her child. In a state of mind like that, how was it possible that the poor woman could have thought of writing to you? Besides, knowing that Mauprat was arrested for attempted murder, why should she have written you so late at night? And why would not the morning have done for your visit?"

"I--I did not--know how long he would be confined, nor did she."

"Evelyn, are you telling me the truth? It does not seem so. It will be useless for you to lie to me, for that woman's insanity was but a temporary aberration of the mind; and while she can never recover from the injuries of her fall, she is perfectly able to answer any questions that may be put to her."

The girl was silent from inability to speak.

She had not read the part of the paper that told of Liz Mauprat's condition, and her single chance lay in the fact of her death!

But she was not dead.

The fates seemed conspiring against her.

She lifted her head, but not an idea could penetrate the mental darkness about her.

For the first time her composure failed her.

Her tongue seemed cleaving to her mouth, her lips were dry and parched.

She had hoped, but the hope was dying.

"Evelyn," Mr. Chandler said slowly, "granting what you have said to be the truth, how do you reconcile the fact of your mother's name having been Mauprat to the story you have told? We adopted you, my wife and I, and we never saw your mother again, but the papers of adoption gave her name as Eleanor Mauprat, and the certificate of your birth, and of her false marriage to your father, tells the rest. Can you explain those truths away? I don't want to be hard with you. I want to give you every chance that lies in my power, but I will not protect a woman who would rob her best friend, who would condemn her sister, as the monster they make you appear has done; who would stop at no wrong however great, to save herself from a humiliation that at worst could have been but the sting of an hour. If this thing is true, and that man were really your father, was the fault yours? Were you not so much the more to be sympathized with, that your birth rested under such a cloud? If you had but trusted to me, do you not know that I would have protected you?"

Very slowly she arose from her chair and stood before him.

Her color had returned until a spot of crimson burned in either cheek.

The timidity of her manner had vanished.

She was the same girl that had defied Leonie Cuyler in the library at the time she was discovered to be a thief!

"Do I not know that you would have protected me?" she asked coldly. "No, I do not! You came here and have offered to assist me, because you did not wish your name brought in the scandal that you felt was about to be connected with me, and now you wish to pose as a saintly and martyred man who rescued the daughter of a convict but to have the serpent sting you. You think that I should fall down and bless you for what you have done for me? Let me tell you how I appreciate it. From my earliest remembrance my only feeling for you was one of fear. I would have applied to any stranger for assistance sooner than to you. You let me know in a thousand ways that upon my conduct alone depended my chance of remaining in the position in which you had placed me. You had shown me the luxury of money, you had me educated to the belief that life was not worth the living without it. You gave me no means by which I could earn my own support and I knew that expulsion from your door meant starvation or service in some one's kitchen. It was theft to close the mouth of my father or death to me! I chose the easier. You ask if what I have told you is the truth? Well, then, no! I am the daughter of an ex-convict. Worse than that, my mother died in the Tombs, convicted of theft! I did steal your money, and Leonie Cuyler saw me do it. While there I told her the story of her birth and of mine to force her to keep my secret. That was a great mistake on my part. I should have found another way. Now what are you going to do? If you pose as a martyr I shall tell my story to the world of the tyrant that you are in your family, where even your own wife sits in fear and trembling. You have but one virtue to commend you, and that is half a vice--honesty, and even that you carry no further than the negative will cover. You are not dishonest so far as money goes. You would have protected me? Where was that poor woman, your brother's wife, whom you let starve with her little child, because she had married your brother against your august will? Do you want that story published to the world? I was only waiting for matters to come to a head before forcing you to my way of thinking in these things.

"Now listen to me. If you refuse to do what you can for me in this, I shall tell these things of which I have spoken to the world; I shall give them the true history of the unfortunate cashier who robbed the bank in Rochester, driven to it through your cruelty; I shall tell them the story of Lillieth Dalworth, your niece, whom you drove to suicide. I do not ask anything of you after my release from here, but I demand that. You have the money to buy it, if you will. I have no crime to answer for that is not bailable. You understand what I mean. Do that, and you will never hear of me again!"

She paused, looking at him defiantly.

He had remained very quiet during her long harangue, and when she had finished, he bowed courteously.

"I will do what I can for you," he said, coldly.

A scornful smile curled her mouth.

She felt that she might have mastered him long, if she had only had the courage, and she took the chair that she had vacated with a smile that was complacent, while she made no attempt to veil its sneer.

"Is there anything else that you would like to say?" he asked, quietly. "Is there no message that you would like to send to the woman who was a mother to you, and against whom there is no charge that you can bring?"

"I will take care of that!" said Miss Chandler, airily.

Mr. Chandler took up his hat.

"Then I may bid you good-morning!" he said, his manner unchanged. "You shall hear from me later."

She bowed as he left the room.

He paused at the captain's desk outside.

"You told me as I came in," he said slowly, calmly, "that there was no charge against Miss Chandler by which she could be held, and that she would be dismissed when she was brought before the justice, did you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. I wish to make a charge against her now--grand larceny!"

The captain started back in amazement.

"But sir----" he began.

"There is nothing more," returned Mr. Chandler, coolly. "When you have made out the complaint, I am ready to sign it, and I should feel grateful if you will do it as speedily as possible!"