hat is it?" he asked, hastily.

"I wish to give you a bit of parting advice. The court will undoubtedly
decide in your favor; I shall be placed in possession of my brother's
estate; but neither you nor I will have the disposal of these millions."

"Why?"

"Because, though this fortune belongs to me, the control of it belongs
to your father."

M. Wilkie was thunderstruck. "To my father?" he exclaimed. "Impossible!"

"It is so, however; and you would not have been ignorant of the fact, if
your greed for money had not made you forget to question me. You believe
yourself an illegitimate child. Wilkie, you are mistaken. You are my
legitimate child. I am a married woman----"

"Bah!"

"And my husband--your father--is not dead. If he is not here now,
threatening our safety, it is because I have succeeded in eluding him.
He lost all trace of us eighteen years ago. Since then he has been
constantly striving to discover us, but in vain. He is still watching,
you may be sure of that; and as soon as there is any talk of a law-suit
respecting the Chalusse property, you will see him appear, armed with
his rights. He is the head of the family--your master and mine. Ah! this
seems to disturb you. You will find him full of insatiable greed for
wealth, a greed which has been whetted by twenty years' waiting. You may
yet see the day when you will regret the paltry twenty thousand francs a
year formerly given you by your poor mother."

Wilkie's face was whiter than his shirt. "You are deceiving me," he
stammered.

"To-morrow I will show you my marriage certificate."

"Why not this evening?"

"Because it is locked up in a room which is now full of people."

"And what was my father's name?"

"Arthur Gordon--he is an American."

"Then my name is Wilkie Gordon?"

"Yes."

"And---is my father rich?" he inquired.

"No."

"What does he do?"

"Everything that a man can do when he has a taste for luxury and a
horror for work."

This reply was so explicit in its brevity, and implied so many terrible
accusations, that Wilkie was dismayed. "The devil!" he exclaimed, "and
where does he live!"

"He lives at Baden or Homburg in the summer; in Paris or at Monaco in
the winter."

"Oh! oh! oh!" ejaculated Wilkie, in three different tones. He knew
what he had to expect from such a father as that. Anger now followed
stupor--one of those terrible, white rages which stir the bile and not
the blood. He saw his hopes and his cherished