For some minutes--how many she never knew--they stood looking at each
other--he stern, indignant, haughty, she trembling, frightened, cowed.
"I recognize you again," he said, at length, in a harsh voice.
Cowed, subdued, she fell on her knees at his feet.
"Woman," he cried, "where is my child?"
She made him no answer, but covered her face with her hands.
"Where is my child?" he repeated. "I intrusted her to you--where is
she?"
The white lips opened, and some feeble answer came which he could not
hear.
"Where is my child?" he demanded. "What have you done with her? For
Heaven's sake, answer me!" he implored.
Again she murmured something he could not catch, and he bent over her.
If ever in his life Lord Mountdean lost his temper, he lost it then. He
could almost, in his impatience, have forgotten that it was a woman who
was kneeling at his feet, and could have shaken her until she spoke
intelligibly. His anger was so great he could have struck her. But he
controlled himself.
"I am not the most patient of men, Margaret Dornham," he said; "and you
are trying me terribly. In the name of Heaven, I ask you, what have you
done with my child?"
"I have not injured her," she sobbed.
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