Opening the outer door, Pringle traversed the passage, and, as before, rapped with his knuckles on the inner door. As before, he said, "Max Van Duren, are you there?"
"Then listen; come closer to the door and listen. You would doubtless like to know why I have shut you up here. That is what I am going to tell you. But first you must answer me one or two questions. Do you know the village of Dunhope, in Berkshire?"
Pringle repeated the question with more emphasis. "If you won't answer my questions, I can't tell you what you are so anxious to know."
"I did know a place of that name some years ago."
"Just so. You knew it some years ago. If we were to say seven or eight years ago, we should not be very wide of the mark. Knowing Dunhope so well, you perhaps knew a young girl who lived there once on a time--a girl whose name was Jessie Ember. Eh! am I right or wrong?"
"You are right; I did know a girl of that name."
"We are getting on famously. A little bird has whispered to me that you made love to this girl, that you persuaded her to leave her situation, and that, relying on your solemn promise to make her your wife, you brought her to London; but that when you had once got her here, you quite forgot your promise to marry her. Are these things true, or are they not?"
There was a long pause. Then came the answer, with a sort of groan--
"Soon tiring of the girl, you turned her adrift to starve or die, or--or to become one of earth's forlornest creatures; it mattered not to you."
He paused, overcome by an emotion that, despite all his efforts, would not be wholly suppressed.
"Am I not right?" he asked, a moment or two later. "Have you ever, from that day to this, troubled yourself to make one single inquiry after the girl whom you once swore that you loved better than life itself? Do you even know whether she is dead or alive?"
"Who are you that you talk to me in this way? By what right do you ask me these questions?"
"Who am I? I will tell you who I am. I am Jessie Ember's father! Who has more right to question you than I?"
It was little more than a whisper, that seemed instinct with surprise, terror, and anguish.
"Scoundrel! unmitigated scoundrel!" began Pringle. Then he paused. "But I only demean myself by calling you names. You are where you are--and I am satisfied."