The House of Whispers

"Come here," he said. "Let me take your hand."

With great reluctance, her eyes fixed upon Flockart's face, she did as she was bid, and as her father took her soft hand in his, he said in a stern, harsh tone, full of suspicion and quite unusual to him, "You are trembling, Gabrielle—trembling, because—because of my unexpected appearance, eh?"

The fair girl with the sweet face and dainty figure was silent. What could she reply?

CHAPTER XX

TELLS OF FLOCKART'S TRIUMPH

"What are you doing here at this hour?" Gabrielle's father demanded slowly, releasing her hand. "Why are you prying into my affairs?" He had not detected Flockart's presence, and believed himself alone with his daughter.

The man's glance again met Gabrielle's, and she saw in his eyes a desperate look. To tell the truth would, she knew, alas! cause the exposure of her secret and her disgrace. On both sides had she suddenly become hemmed in by a deadly peril.

"Dad," she cried suddenly, "do I not know all about your affairs already? Do I not act as your secretary? With what motive should I open your safe?"

Without response, the blind man moved back to the open door, and, placing his hand within, fingered one of the long iron drawers. It was unlocked, and he drew it forth. Some papers were within—blue, legal-looking papers which his daughter had never seen. "Yes," he exclaimed aloud, "just as I thought. This drawer has been opened, and my private affairs pried into. Tell me, Gabrielle, where is young Murie just at present?"

"In Paris, I believe. He left London unexpectedly three days ago."

"Paris!" echoed the old man. "Ah," he added, "Goslin was right—quite right. And so you, my daughter, in whom I placed all my trust—my—my only friend—have betrayed me!" he added brokenly.

"I have not betrayed you, dear father," was her quick protest. "To whom do you allege I have exposed your affairs?"

"To your lover, Walter."

To Flockart, whose wits were already at work upon some scheme to extricate himself, there came at that instant a sudden suggestion. He spoke, causing the old man to start suddenly and turn in the direction of the speaker.

As the words left his lips he raised a threatening finger towards Gabrielle, a sign of silence to her of which the old man was unfortunately in ignorance.

"I think, Sir Henry, that I ought to speak—to tell you the truth, painful though it may be. Five minutes ago I came down here in order to get a telegraph-form, as I wanted to send a wire at the earliest possible moment to-morrow, when, to my surprise, I saw a light beneath the door. I–"

"Oh, no, no!" gasped the girl, in horrified protest. "It's a lie!"

"I crept in quietly, and was very surprised to find Gabrielle with the safe open, and alone. I had expected that she was sitting up late, working with you. But she seemed to be examining and reading some papers she took from a drawer. Forgive me for telling you this, but the truth must now be made plain. I startled her by my sudden presence; and, pointing out the dishonour of copying her father's papers, no matter for what purpose, I compelled her to return the documents to their place. I fold her frankly that it was my duty, as your friend, to inform you of the incident; but she implored me, for the sake of her lover, to remain silent."

"Mr. Flockart!" cried the girl, "how dare you say such a thing when you know it to be an untruth; when–"

"Enough!" exclaimed her father bitterly. "I'm ashamed of you, Gabrielle.

I–"

"I would beg of you, Sir Henry, not further to distress yourself," Flockart interrupted. "Love, as you know, often prompts both men and women to commit acts of supreme folly."

"Folly!" echoed the blind man. "This is more than folly! Gabrielle and her lover have conspired to bring about my ruin. I have had suspicions for several weeks; now, alas! they are confirmed. Walter Murie is in Paris at this moment in order to make money out of the secret knowledge which Gabrielle obtains for him. My own daughter is responsible for my betrayal!" he added, in a voice broken by emotion.

"No, no, Sir Henry!" urged Flockart. "Surely the outlook is not so black as you foresee. Gabrielle has acted injudiciously; but surely she is still devoted to you and your interests."

"Yes," cried the girl in desperation, "you know I am, dad. You know that I–"

"It is useless, Flockart, for you to endeavour to seek forgiveness for Gabrielle," declared her father in a firm, harsh voice, "Quite useless. She has even endeavoured to deny the statement you have made—tried to deny it when I actually heard with my own ears her defiant declaration that she was prepared to bear her shame and all its consequences! Let her do so, I say. She shall leave Glencardine to-morrow, and have no further opportunity to conspire against me."

"Oh, father, what are you saying?" she cried in despair, bursting into tears. "I have not conspired."

"I am saying the truth," went on the blind man. "You and your lover have formed another clever plot, eh? Because I have not sight to watch you, you will copy my business reports and send them to Walter Murie, who hopes to place them in a certain channel where he can receive payment. This is not the first time my business has leaked out from this room. Only a short time ago certain confidential documents were offered to the Greek Government, but fortunately they were false ones prepared on purpose to trick any one who had designs upon my business secrets."

"I swear I am in ignorance of it all."

"Well, I have now told you plainly," the old man said. "I loved you, Gabrielle, and until this moment foolishly believed that you were devoted to me and to my interests. I trusted you implicitly, but you have betrayed me into the hands of my enemies—betrayed me," he wailed, "in such a manner that only ruin may face me. I tell you the hard and bitter truth. I am blind, and ever since your return from school you have acted as my secretary, and I have looked at the world only through your eyes. Ah," he sighed, "but I ought to have known! I should never have trusted a woman, even though she be my own daughter."

The girl stood with her blanched face covered by her hands. To protest, to declare that Flockart's story was a lie, was, she saw, all to no purpose. Her father had overheard her bold defiance and had, alas! most unfortunately taken it as an admission of her guilt.

Flockart stood motionless but watchful; yet by the few words he uttered he succeeded in impressing the blind man with the genuineness of his friendship both for father and for daughter. He urged forgiveness, but Sir Henry disregarded all his appeals.

"No," he declared. "It is fortunate indeed, Flockart, that you made this discovery, and thus placed me upon my guard." The poor deluded man little dreamt that on the occasion when Flockart had taken him down the drive to announce his departure from Glencardine on account of the gossip, and had drawn Sir Henry's attention to his hanging watch-chain, he had succeeded in cleverly obtaining two impressions of the safe-key attached. In his excitement, it had never occurred to him to ask his daughter by what means she had been able to open that steel door.

"Dad," she faltered, advancing towards him and placing her soft, tender hand upon his shoulder, "won't you listen to reason? I assure you I am quite innocent of any attempt or intention to betray you. I know you have many enemies;" and she glanced quickly in Flockart's direction. "Have we not often discussed them? Have I not kept eyes and ears open, and told you of all I have seen and learnt? Have–"

"You have seen and learnt what is to my detriment," he answered. "All argument is useless. A fortnight or so ago, by your aid, my enemies secured a copy of a certain document which has never left yonder safe. To-night Mr. Flockart has discovered you again tampering with my safe, and with my own ears I heard you utter defiance. You are more devoted to your lover than to me, and you are supplying him with copies of my papers."

"That is untrue, dad," protested the girl reproachfully.

But her father shook her hand roughly from his shoulder, saying, "I have already told you my decision, which is irrevocable. To-morrow you shall leave Glencardine and go to your aunt Emily at Woodnewton. You won't have much opportunity for mischief in that dull little Northampton village. I won't allow you to remain under my roof any longer; you are too ungrateful and deceitful, knowing as you do the misery of my affliction."

"But, father–"

"Go to your room," he ordered sternly. "Tomorrow I will speak with your mother, and we shall then decide what shall be done. Only, understand one thing: in the future you are not my dear daughter that you have been in the past. I—I have no daughter," he added in a voice harsh yet broken by emotion, "for you have now proved yourself an enemy worse even than those who for so many years have taken advantage of my helplessness."

"Ah, dad, dad, you are cruel!" she cried, bursting again into a torrent of tears. "You are too cruel! I have done nothing!"

"Do you call placing me in peril nothing?" he retorted bitterly. "Go to your room at once. Remain with me, Flockart. I want to speak to you."

The girl saw herself convicted by those unfortunate words she had used—words meant in defiance of her arch-enemy Flockart, but which had placed her in ignominy and disgrace. Ah, if she could only stand firm and speak the ghastly truth! But, alas! she dared not. Flockart, the man who held her in his power, the man whom she knew to be her father's bitterest opponent, a cheat and a fraud, stood there triumphant, with a smile upon his lips; while she, pure, honest, and devoted to that afflicted man, was denounced and outcast. She raised her voice in one last word of faint protest.

But her father, angered and grieved, turned fiercely upon her and ordered her from his presence. "Go," he said, "and do not come near me again until your boxes are packed and you are ready to leave Glencardine."

"You speak as though I were a servant whom you've discharged," she said bitterly.

"I am speaking to my enemy, not to my daughter," was his hard response.

She raised her eyes to Flockart, and saw upon his dark face a hard, sphinx-like look. What hope of salvation could she ever expect from that man—the man who long ago had sought to estrange her from her father so that he might work his own ends? It was upon her tongue to turn upon him and relate the whole infamous truth. Yet so friendly had the two men become of late that she feared, even if she did so, that her father would only see in the revelation an attempt at reprisal. Besides, what if Flockart spoke? What if he told the awful truth? Her own dear father, whom she loved so well, even though he had misjudged her, would be dragged into the mire. No, she was the victim of that man, who was a past-master of the art of subterfuge; the man who, for years, had lived by his wits and preyed upon society.

"Leave us, and go to your room," again commanded her father.

She looked sadly at the white, bespectacled countenance which she loved so well. Her soft hand once more sought his; but he cast it from him, saying, "Enough of your caresses! You are no longer my daughter! Leave us!" And then, seeing all protest in vain, she sighed, turned very slowly, and with a last, lingering look upon the helpless man to whom she had been so devoted, and who now so grossly misjudged her, she tottered out, closing the door behind her.

"Has she gone?" asked Sir Henry a moment later.

Flockart responded in the affirmative, laying his hand upon the shoulder of his agitated host, and urging him to remain calm.