"How do you know he isn’t married, Phyllis?"--he shot this at her mercilessly. "How do you know anything except what he’s told you? You may be willing to believe him, and all that--but I’m your father, and I want to _know_, and by God, I’m going to know!"
"Aha, you’re not very confident, are you?"
"He’s a man. I don’t doubt he’s been foolish, and bad, and fast, but to see it written down cold-bloodedly on sheets of paper is more than I can bear. I am willing to ignore that; I am willing to take him as he is _now_. Oh, Papa, a woman can forgive so much."
"Yes, my dear, and a great deal that a father never could."
"I beg you, Papa, I implore you to telegraph to them to stop."
"It’s too late--besides it has to be done; I insist on it; I’m going to strip that man’s past to the bone."
"Even if it costs you me? Even if this is the end of everything between us?"
"Fiddle-de-dee, these theatrics are unworthy of you! You’re going to take the noon train to Sarah’s, and behave yourself; and this business, however disagreeable to both of us, has got to go through."
Her lips tightened mutinously. She was not a young woman who could be driven.
"I’ll stay here, or walk right out of your house--and you know where."
"Then stay," he cried, rising wrathfully, "and may God forgive you for the misery you are bringing down on me. I’m only trying to do what’s best, and you treat me as though I was one of that fellow’s cruel parents on the stage! It’s no time to mince matters, and I tell you straight out, Phyllis, he’s a blackguard and a scoundrel, and when you see the Pinkertons’ report, I guess you’ll go down on your knees and beg my pardon for your heartlessness and obstinacy."
He glared at her, expecting a retort that would add fresh fuel to his anger, but she was silent, downcast, trembling. The answer she made was to herself, inaudible save to her anguished soul: "Oh, that Saturday night were here!"
The four days that followed were almost unendurable in the strain they entailed. Phyllis was heavy with her secret; beset by emotions so conflicting that they seemed to rend her to pieces; forlorn and desolate under her father’s studied coldness. The detectives’ report did not come, or was withheld perhaps,--but the apprehension of it was always hanging horribly above her head. It was not the facts themselves she feared most, though she dreaded them, too; it was to hear them tauntingly on her father’s lips; to be forced to stand, and listen, and cringe at what the human ferrets had unearthed.--Anxious days; leaden days; sad, introspective, interminable days, never to be recalled in after life without a peculiar depression.