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Page 97
Soft footsteps interrupted his musing, and the next instant the door
opened. Madge entered the room, holding in one white hand a crumpled
letter. She wore a gown of lustrous rose-colored material, with filmy
lace on the throat and bosom, and her splendid hair strayed coyly over
her neck and temples. She had never looked more dazzlingly lovely,
Nevill thought, and yet--
He rose quickly from the chair, and then the words of greeting died on
his lips. He recoiled like a man who sees a ghost, and a sharp and
sudden fear stabbed him. In Madge's face, in her flushed cheeks and
blazing, scornful eyes, he read the signs of a woman roused to supremest
anger.
"How dared you come?" she cried, in a voice that he seemed never to have
heard before. "How dared you? Have you no shame, no conscience? Go! Go!"
"Madge! What has happened?"
"Not that name from you! I forbid it; it dishonors me!"
"I will speak! What does this farce mean?"
"Need you ask? I know all, Victor Nevill! I know that you are a liar
and a traitor--that you are everything wicked and vile, infamous and
cowardly! Heaven has revealed the truth! I know that Diane Merode was
never Jack's wife! It was you, his trusted friend, who stole her from
him in Paris six years ago! You, who found her in London last spring,
and persuaded her to play the false and wicked part that crushed the
happiness out of two lives! That is not all; but it would be useless
to recount the rest of your dastardly deeds. Oh, how I despise and hate
you! Your presence is an insult--it is loathsome! Go! Leave me!"
Nevill had listened to this tirade with a madly throbbing heart, and a
countenance that was almost livid. He was stunned and bewildered; he did
not understand how it was possible for detection to have overtaken him.
His first impulse was to brazen the thing out, on the chance that the
girl's accusations were prompted more by surmise than knowledge.
"It is false!" he cried, striving to compose himself. "You will be sorry
for what you have said. Has John Vernon told you these lies?"
"I have not seen him; he probably knows nothing as yet. But he _will_
learn all, and if you are within his reach--"
"This is ridiculous nonsense," Nevill hoarsely interrupted. "It is the
work of an enemy. Some one has been poisoning your mind against me. Who
is my accuser?"
"_Diane Merode!_" cried Madge, hissing the words from her clenched
teeth. "She accuses you from the grave! Here! Take this and read it--it
is a copy of the original. And then deny the truth if you dare!"
Nevill clutched the proffered letter--the girl did not give him Jimmie's
extra enclosure. He read quickly, merely scanning the written pages, and
yet grasping their fateful import. He must have been more than human to
hide his consternation. The blow fell like a thunderbolt: betrayal had
come from the quarter whence he would have least expected it--from the
grave. His lips quivered uncontrollably. The pages dropped to the floor.
"_Now_ do you deny it?" Madge demanded. "Answer, and go!"
"I deny everything," he snarled hoarsely. "It is a forgery--a tissue of
lies! Believe me, Madge! Don't spurn me! Don't cast me off! I will prove
to you--"
"I say go!"
The girl's voice was as hard and cold as steel. She pointed to the door
as Nevill made a step toward her. Her ravishing beauty, lost to him
forever, maddened him. For an instant he was tempted to fly at her
throat and bruise its loveliness. But just then a bell pealed loudly
through the house. The front door was heard to open, and voices mingled
with rapid steps. An elderly man burst unceremoniously into the room,
and Nevill recognized Stephen Foster's clerk and shop assistant. Bad
news was stamped on his agitated face.
"What is the matter, Hawkins?" Madge asked, breathlessly.
"Oh, how can I tell you, Miss Foster? It is terrible! Your father--"
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