The Late Tenant

CHAPTER XVIII
FROM THE DEPTHS

Violet entered the drawing-room with the air of one who rejoices in good news. Consider that she had just learned the certainty of her sister’s fair fame, and that, in the same breath, she was freed from Van Hupfeldt’s pestering: was it to be wondered at if, since the dread day she received a letter from a loved one already dead, she had never once looked so light-hearted, so full of the wine of life, as when she danced into the house after her interview with David. And this quickening of her pulses boded no good to Van Hupfeldt.

A lawyer-like man was arranging parchments on a table – a large, square table which had evidently been brought from a library for the purpose, as the day was chill indoors and the drawing-room was cozy with a log fire. Van Hupfeldt, who had turned from the window before Violet appeared, affected to be examining the great red seals on the green ribbons laced into the vellum. That weak heart of his was knocking hard at his ribs; but his lips were tight set: he was fighting with his back to the wall, for that interloper, David Harcourt, must have told Violet everything. So, really, Van Hupfeldt deserved some consideration for his splendid nonchalance.

Mrs. Mordaunt sat in an easy-chair, stroking her toy Pom. She was anxious for these preliminaries to be done with. Dale Manor was an expensive place to keep up; Van Hupfeldt’s millions would restore the Falerian order. So she hailed her daughter pleasantly, after one critical glance.

“Your little walk did, indeed, bring out the roses, Vi. But you were rather beyond the ten minutes, and Mr. Sharpe is a business man, dear; we must not detain him unduly.”

Mr. Sharpe coughed with deference. He was open to be detained or retained for the rest of his life, at the price per diem.

“Ah, yes,” said Violet, softly, giving Van Hupfeldt a queer look which he alone understood. “There are things to be signed, something about some one of the first part and some other person of the second part. Why do you use such odd terms, Mr. Sharpe?”

“It is the jargon of the law, Miss Mordaunt. Every line adds a mite to the small incomes of us poor lawyers.”

“But who are these people?”

Sharpe looked puzzled. “The first deed recites the marriage contract between you and Mr. Van Hupfeldt,” he began to explain.

But Violet said, and her words had the cold clink of ice in a glass: “Who is Mr. Van Hupfeldt?”

“Vi!” This from Mrs. Mordaunt.

“Mother, better not interfere. You don’t seem to understand, Mr. Sharpe. You spoke of a Mr. Henry Van Hupfeldt. Who is he?”

The lawyer, smirking at the hidden joke, pointed to the man standing by the table. “Of course, that is he,” he said.

“Oh, no. That is Johann Strauss, the man who married and, it may be found, killed my sister. You must look further into your papers, Mr. Sharpe. There is some terrible mistake. Perhaps, if you went on your knees and prayed to God for guidance in your work, it might be better!”

“Vi!” shrieked her mother again, and the dog in her lap sprang off in alarm.

The solicitor stood dumfounded, still thinking that some bizarre piece of humor was toward.

It was Van Hupfeldt who saved Mrs. Mordaunt from imminent hysteria. “Violet has been talking to that fellow Harcourt, of whom I told you,” he said coolly. “She is, unfortunately, only too ready to believe him, and a further wall of distrust is built between us at a most inopportune moment. I am sorry, Mrs. Mordaunt; it is not my fault. And I would have saved you from this, Violet. I knew he had left London, so I wired precautions. But he is a scamp of unparalleled audacity and resource. Surely you have given him no money?”

Violet, scarce trusting her ears, listened to the calm, smooth sentences with rising indignation. But she mastered herself sufficiently to say: “He has told me everything – about the certificates, the diary, all. The time of lies has passed. Did you, then, kill my sister?”

“Why condense the tale? Of course he assured you that Dibbin, the agent who let the flat to your sister’s husband, will readily identify me as Strauss; that Sarah Gissing, her servant, will hail me as her former master?”

“Yes. He did say that.”

“Why did he not bring them here?”

“He will bring them to-morrow.”

Van Hupfeldt smiled wearily. It seemed as though he could not help himself. “Forgive me, Violet,” he said. “It is I who will bring them – not Harcourt. He dare not. His bubble bursts the moment you ask for proof. Indeed, I am beginning to think the man is mad. He must have conceived an insane affection for you, and you are committing a great wrong in giving him these clandestine meetings.”

This was too much. Violet advanced toward him with eyes aflame. “There were days in the history of the world when men were struck dead from Heaven!” she cried.

“That is yet possible,” he answered with a strange humility.

“Do you deny all, all?” she almost screamed.

“Not only do I deny, but I affirm, and I have my proofs. I have known for some time, not very long, it is true, that a man named Johann Strauss did assume my name when he married your sister. There is nothing remarkable in that. I am a rich man, known to many. The adoption of a pseudonym is a common device of actors. There was no real resemblance between this person Strauss and myself. Of that fact those who were well acquainted with him – Dibbin and Sarah Gissing – will assure you to-morrow in this house. I have your sister’s marriage certificate, and the birth registration of her child. I know where the child is. I will bring the foster-mother to tell you that I was not the man who intrusted the infant to her care. I have your sister’s diary, which this Harcourt did really secure. I got it from him by a trick, I admit, but only to save you from becoming his dupe. Now I have placed all my cards on the table, by the side of your marriage settlement. Can David Harcourt do as much?”

The girl’s lips quivered a little. What was she to believe? In whom was she to trust? She wanted to cry, but she dug her nails into her white hands; for the encircling clasp of David’s arms still tingled on her shoulders. “Why do you tell me all this only when I force it from you?” she asked.

“You answer your own question. You force it from me. Exactly I would prefer that my promised wife should have trust in me. I wished to spare you certain sordid revelations; but because some American adventurer happens upon a family tragedy and uses it for his own purposes – whether base or not I do not stop to inquire – you treat me as the one quite unworthy of belief. Violet, you hurt me more than you know.” The man’s voice broke. Tears stood in his eyes.

The girl was nearly distraught under the stress of the struggle going on with her. “Henry Van Hupfeldt,” she said solemnly, looking him straight in the face, “may the Lord judge between me and you if I have wronged you!”

“No, sweet girl, you cannot wrong me; for my conscience is clear, but it is a hard thing that you should incline rather to this blackmailer than to me.”

“Blackmailer!” The ugly word came from her lips in sheer protest; the lash of a whip could not have stung as cruelly.

“Yes, most certainly. Did he not demand a hundred pounds from you? Let me go to him and offer five hundred, and you will never see or hear of him again.”

“Oh, if that is so, there is no faith or honesty in the world.”

“Is he your world, then?” demanded Van Hupfeldt, bitterly, and even Mrs. Mordaunt broke in with her moan:

“Oh, Vi!”

“Let us end this distressing scene,” went on Van Hupfeldt with a repressed indignation that was exceedingly convincing. “Mr. Sharpe, you see, of course, that Miss Mordaunt cannot be expected to complete these agreements to-day. Please be here to-morrow at the same time. Before that hour I shall be back from London with all the witnesses and documents which shall prove to Miss Mordaunt’s complete satisfaction that she has been grossly misled by a cleverly concocted story. Indeed, I would be glad if, subsequently, you interviewed this David Harcourt. It seems to me almost credible now that he himself believed the extraordinary tale he has made up.”

“Whatever you please shall be done, sir,” said the lawyer. “And may I add, for the benefit of these two ladies, that – er – my own knowledge of your position and – er – career completely excludes such a preposterous – er – ”

“Thank you, Mr. Sharpe,” broke in Van Hupfeldt. “You mean that kindly, I know; but this is a matter between Miss Mordaunt and myself at the moment.”

The solicitor gathered up his papers and withdrew. For a little while there was no sound in the room except the mother’s sobbing and the daughter’s labored breathing; for unhappy Violet was so torn with doubt that her breast appeared to be unable to harbor its agitation. A few minutes ago she deemed herself free from a compact hateful to her soul; yet, here was Van Hupfeldt more convincing, more compelling, than ever. To her terrified eyes the man assumed the shape and properties of a python, a monstrous snake from which there was no escape.

And then the sibilant hiss of his voice reached her dulled ears. “Mrs. Mordaunt, may I appeal to your authority? Surely this Harcourt will not be admitted here in my absence? I do not ask much, only a respite of twenty-four hours. Then I return, with all the proofs.”

“Why have they been withheld so long?” came Violet’s agonized protest.

“I do declare, Vi,” broke in her mother, “that you would try the patience of Job! Have you lost all your fine sense of honor and fairness? What more can Mr. Van Hupfeldt do to please you? And where do you meet this young man who so unwarrantably thrusts himself into our affairs, I should like to know?”

Poor Violet knew that the British matron instinct was fighting against her now. And there never was a girl more bound up in her family ties than this one. “Forgive me, mother,” she said wearily. “The long struggle is at an end, now. Let Mr. Van Hupfeldt keep his promise, and I shall not cause further difficulty.”

“Well said!” cried Van Hupfeldt, eagerly. “That is a brave resolve. I accept it implicitly. Mrs. Mordaunt, I trust you will not be angry with my Violet while I am away. I know how she has suffered. It is for me to make amends for all that. And I promise her happiness, a full cup. And, meanwhile, Violet – ”

“I agree. I neither see nor speak to nor send any message to David Harcourt, as far as lies in my power, until your return to-morrow.”

“I kiss my hand to you both!” cried Van Hupfeldt with the gallant air which came natural to him, and he went out. His preparations were soon made. A carriage took him to the station; but before he quitted the manor, he sent for the gamekeeper.

“You were remiss in your duty,” he said sternly to the man. “The person of whom I warned you has been in the park and has spoken to Miss Violet. Now, listen carefully to what I say. Obtain any help you require and guard this house and its grounds so that not a bird can fly over it nor a rabbit scamper among the bushes without your knowledge. Do this until I return to-morrow and I give you fifty pounds, but fail in the least particular and you will be dismissed instantly.” He was gone, with a rush of whipped horses.

Velveteens took thought. “Twiced in one day!” he growled. “A licking or the sack, an’ fifty quid or the sack – which is it to be?”

It might be one, or all, or none. Of such firsts, seconds, and thirds is the acrostic of life made up. But the promise of money stirred the man’s dull wits. No watch-dog could have been more faithful to his trust, and, by lavish offers of silver and beer – deferred luxuries, of course – he secured the aid of certain local poachers, his lasting enemies, but his friends for the night. In a word, if David had crept again into the park, he would probably have been beaten to a jelly.

But David attempted nothing of the sort. He was loyal to his pact with Violet, never dreaming of the ordeal to which the girl had submitted. Nevertheless, having no sort of occupation, he kept his eyes and ears open. He saw Sharpe drive through the village, and was told that the lawyer was head of a trusted firm in the county town. He saw Van Hupfeldt pass toward the station, and the ostler learned from a railway porter that the “gentleman from the manor” had gone to “Lunnon.”

This gave David cause to think, seeing that there was no news from Violet. But he waited, with much hope and some spasms of miserableness, through the long dull evening; heard nothing from her; went to bed; tossed restlessly until the sun rose; met the village postman at the door of the inn; and still received no tidings. He breakfasted, hung about, watched the road, sauntered as far as the lodge, nodded affably to velveteens behind the bars, and caught no glimpse of Violet. Then he determined to break the spell of silence. He returned to the inn and wrote a letter, which he intrusted to His Majesty’s Postmaster-General for express delivery.

Sure enough, the postmistress’s young sister refused to be turned back by the Cerberus at the gate, nor would she tell her business. The man knew her, suspected her errand, but dared not interfere, having a wholesome regard for the law; so all he could do was to note her coming and going, and report to his briber, for he was Mrs. Mordaunt’s servant.

And this is what David wrote:

My Dear One – Can it be that some newly conceived lie has kept you from sending for me? I only ask your full inquiry: I stand or fall by that. But spare me this silence; for I am eating my heart out.

Yours,

David.

The messenger tripped back. “No answer, sir,” she said, and the words smote David such a blow that his cheek blanched, while the girl wondered.

“To whom did you hand my note?” he managed to ask.

“To Miss Violet, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Gave it to her myself.”

“And she read it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did she say anything?”

“Just that, sir; no answer.”

Then David, in a mighty wrath and fume, dashed off another note.

Very well, be it so. I return to London. God help you if you marry that man! You will sink to the pit, and the angels alone will be able to lift you therefrom. Let there be no error this time. I leave for London at one fifteen, P.M. If you want me you must either detain me now or come to me in London.

Back went the postmistress’s sister, marveling at the strangeness of these one-sided missives between the young woman of the manor and a handsome young man at the Feathers. Being seventeen, she took David’s side as against Violet. So she added, on her own account, when she saw the white-faced aristocrat in the house, the explanatory statement that “the young gentleman seemed to be very much upset at receiving no reply.”

Poor Violet, in whom loyalty was hereditary, could not break her word. But she did say: “I have no message to-day; but I know Mr. Harcourt’s address.”

That was the only crumb of comfort vouchsafed to David. Away he went at quarter-past one, nor did the volcano in him show any sign of subsidence when he reached the gloom and shadows of No. 7 Eddystone Mansions.

For a little drop of acutest poison had been poured into his ear by the gossip of the village. In the bar overnight he heard yokels talking of the need of money at the big house, how Van Hupfeldt’s wealth would make the flowers grow again in Rigsworth. He smiled at the conceit then; now he knew that deadly nightshade was sown in the garden of his hopes, for he imagined that money had proved more potent than love.

It was a remarkable thing that of all the pictures in the flat he had left untouched the portrait in chalk which hung over the dining-room fireplace. It savored too much of sacrilege to disturb that ethereal face; but David was in far too savage a mood to check at sentiment during those dark hours. He surveyed the portrait almost vindictively, though had he been less bitter he might have seen a reassuring smile in the parted lips. So it came to pass that, after eating some dry bread, which was the only food he found in the larder, he lit a pipe, looked at the picture again, and yielded to the impulse to examine it.

Strong as were his nerves, he had to force himself to apply a knife to its brown-papered back. And then, with a queer vindictive howl of triumph, he drew forth a curiously insipid portrait of Van Hupfeldt, inscribed “To Gwen,” with a date, and, folded behind it, a terrible little note, merely dated “Paris; Tuesday,” which read:

My Poor Girl – At last, then, you force the miserable truth from me. Mrs. Strauss is my wife. She is twice my age. She forced me to marry her ten years ago for her money. She is, indeed, dying, and then I can fly to you. For the sake of our boy, forgive me.

Harry.

“Ah!” There was something sadly animal in David’s triumph. He felt like a dog which has seized the rat after which it has been straining, and, in a minute or two, he had the grace to be ashamed of himself. Then he thought of Violet, and he broke down, crying like a child. Those tears were good for him; they brought him back to sanity and garnished the dark places of his heart.

But what to do? That was more than ever the problem. He bolted and barred his door that night, and the photograph and letter lay beside his revolver under his pillow. Not forty Van Hupfeldts nor a legion of ghosts should reave him of those telling pieces of evidence!

CHAPTER XIX
VIOLET DECIDES

Violet, waked from broken rest by the cooing of doves, had rue in her soul. She met her mother at breakfast, and the good woman, thinking her daughter not altogether in her right senses, was disposed to be somewhat snappish. So the girl was driven back on her sad imaginings, nor were they dissipated by David’s two little notes. When she sent the messenger away the second time she was in a strange state of calm. Despair had numbed her: she thought persistently of her sister, and wondered if the only true rest was to be found in that dark nook of the grave.

She saw a carriage depart for the railway station to bring Van Hupfeldt. In half an hour its wheels grated on the gravel of the drive, and a servant came to her room to summon her to the fateful conclave. She was on her knees, in dry-eyed prayer, and the frightened maid, who loved Miss Violet, had a little catch in her voice as she said:

“You are wanted in the drawing-room, miss, and please, miss, I do hope you won’t take on so. Everybody says you ought to be happy; but I” – sniff – “I know yer ain’t, miss.”

Violet rose and kissed the girl. It was good to have such honest sympathy.

In the big, cheerful salon beneath she found her mother, stiff and self-conscious, wondering what people would think if Violet persisted in her folly; Van Hupfeldt, collected and deferential, wearing a buttonhole of violets (of all flowers in creation!), and, seated gingerly on the edge of a chair, a quietly dressed young woman with “domestic servant” writ large upon her. But Dibbin, for whom Violet’s eyes searched dreamily, was not there.

Van Hupfeldt, who seemed to have an uncanny trick of reading her thoughts when they were hostile, explained instantly: “Not all my persuasions could bring Mr. Dibbin from his office to-day. He had some business engagement which was imperative, he said. But I have done the next best thing. Here is a letter from him. He will substantiate its statements in person some later day.”

He held out a letter. The girl took it mechanically. The envelope bore her name, typed. She broke the seal and began to read; but her mother, resolved to have “no nonsense this time,” interrupted, with an unusual sharpness:

“Aloud, please!”

So Violet read:

Dear Miss Mordaunt: – For some reason, not explained to me, a gentleman named Van Hupfeldt has asked me to assure you that he is not Johann Strauss, who rented the flat No. 7, Eddystone Mansions, some two years since. Of course, I do that readily. I much regret that I cannot travel to Rigsworth with Mr. Van Hupfeldt to-day; but I do not suppose that the odd request he makes is really so urgent as he would have me believe. Please convey my respectful regards to Mrs. Mordaunt.

Yours faithfully,

John Dibbin.

Excepting the signature, the letter was typewritten. Violet knew the old agent’s scrawling handwriting very well. He had never sent her a typewritten letter before. She laid the document on the table which had borne the parchments of yesterday.

“Well? Is that satisfactory?” said Van Hupfeldt.

“Quite conclusive,” murmured Mrs. Mordaunt.

“Who is this?” asked Violet, turning toward the nervous young person on the edge of a chair.

“That is Sarah Gissing, poor Gwen’s maid.”

It was not Sarah Gissing; but Jenny, loaned by Miss Ermyn L’Estrange for the day at a stiff figure paid to both – Jenny, schooled for her part and glib enough at it, though her Cockney pertness was momentarily awed by the old-world grandeur of Dale Manor and its two “real” ladies.

So Van Hupfeldt was playing with loaded dice; he had discarded the dangerous notion of trying to buy Dibbin for the simpler expedient of a forged letter. The marriage ceremony was now the great coup; let that be an irrevocable fact and he believed he would be able to manage everything.

“Ah!” said Violet, with a pathos that might have touched even a calloused heart, “you are Sarah Gissing. You knew my dear sister? You saw her in her last hours? You heard her last words?”

“Yes, miss,” sniveled Jenny, “an’ this gentleman ain’t Mr. Strauss, though he do resemble him a bit.”

Now, this assurance came too quick on the heels of a natural question. It had not been asked for as yet. Violet was ready to bare her heart to this common-looking girl for sake of the knowledge that she was Gwendoline’s only confidante. But the exceeding promptitude of Jenny’s testimony forced back the rush of sentiment. Violet even recoiled a little. Could it be possible that her sweet and gracious sister, the laughing sprite of bygone days, had been driven to make something of a friend of this coarse, small-faced, mean-eyed wench? How pitiful, how sordid, was each fresh chapter of Gwen’s hidden life!

Van Hupfeldt saw that a check had occurred, though his seething brain, intent only on securing an unalterable verdict, was unable to appreciate the delicate poise of Violet’s emotions. “Question her,” he said gently. “She will tell you all about her mistress, to whom she was very greatly attached. Were you not, Sarah?”

“Oh, yes, sir. She were such a lovely lady, and so nice an’ kind in her ways, that nobody could help lovin’ her.”

That was better. Violet thawed again. “I hardly know what to ask you,” she said wistfully. “Did she ever speak of us, of my mother and me?”

“She would talk about you for hours, miss. Many a time I could hardly get on with my work, she was so anxious to have some one to gossip with. Bless your ’eart, miss, I know your name as well as my own.”

Strange, most unutterably strange, thought Violet; but she said, with a sad smile: “You were much favored, Sarah. I would have given all I have in the world to have changed places with you. Tell me, was this man – this Mr. Strauss – kind to her?”

“He must have been, miss. He – ”

“Must have been? But you saw and heard!”

Jenny kept her head, though she flushed a little. “People often do put on a different way before servants, miss, to what they have in private. Not that I have reason to think anyways bad of Mr. Strauss. He was a very generous sort of gentleman, always free with his money. What I meant was that Miss – er – Miss Gwendoline used to speak of him as a lovin’ husband.”

Jenny caught her breath a trifle. She did not dare to look at Van Hupfeldt, as he had specially warned her against doing so. Like most of her class, she was prepared now to cover any mistake by excessive volubility.

“Did you address her as ‘Miss Gwendoline,’ then?”

“Yes, miss. That is the way on the stage, you know.”

“But this was not on the stage.”

“Quite right, miss, only ladies in the profession mostly uses their stage names in private.”

“My sister never appeared on any stage, to my knowledge.”

Jenny became a little defiant. “Of course, miss,” she answered tartly, “I didn’t know much about my missus’s comin’s and goin’s, but she used to go regular to rehearsal. The call was for eleven and two most days.”

Violet found herself in a new world. What could have come to Gwendoline that she should have quitted her home and gone away among these strange people? And what had she said that this servant-girl should suddenly show the shrew in her?

She glanced toward her mother, who, indeed, was as greatly perturbed as herself. The old lady could scarce comprehend that the talk was of her darling Gwendoline. Then Van Hupfeldt, thinking to lead Violet’s ideas into a fresh channel, broke in:

“I was sure that these things would distress you,” he said in the low voice of sympathy. “Perhaps you would prefer to send Sarah to the housekeeper’s room while you look at the documents I have brought.”

Violet, in whose brain a hundred wild questions as to her sister’s life were jostling, suddenly faced Jenny again. “What was my sister’s baby called?” she asked.

“Henry, miss, after its father.”

“But why ‘Henry,’ since the father’s name was Johann?”

“That is a puzzle, miss. I’m only tellin’ you what I know.”

“And what became of the child? Why was it spirited away from its mother? or was it not taken away until after her death?”

Jenny had been told to be close as an oyster on this matter. “I don’t know why the baby was sent out to nurse, miss,” she said. “I can only tell you it was never in the flat.”

Violet passed a hand across her eyes as though to clear a bewildered brain. This domestic lived in a small flat with her sister, who “gossiped” for “hours” with her, yet the girl knew little about a child which Gwen must have idolized.

“Then you never saw the baby?” she asked.

“No, miss; that is, once, I think,” for Jenny did now venture to look at Van Hupfeldt, and his slight nod came at the instant of her denial. He thought the infant a safe topic, in regard to its appearance, and the mother’s love of it.

Mrs. Mordaunt, who had been listening intently enough, caught Jenny’s hesitation. “It is odd,” she said, “that you should have forgotten, or be uncertain of, such a definite fact as seeing my daughter’s child.”

A maid entered with a telegram which she handed to Violet. In a quiet country mansion the advent of a telegram is a rare event. People in rural England regard this curt manner of communication as reserved only for important items. Mrs. Mordaunt was a little alarmed. Her mind quickly reviewed all her relatives’ ailments.

“What is it, Vi?” she asked anxiously, while Van Hupfeldt wondered if any unoccupied fiend had tempted David Harcourt to interfere at this critical moment.

Violet opened the buff envelope and read the message slowly. It was a perfectly marvelous thing that she retained her self-control, for the telegram was from Dibbin at Dundee.

Have just concluded sale, after three days’ private negotiation here. Your moiety five hundred pounds. Letter follows.

It referred to a long-deferred bequest from a cousin, and was a simple matter enough. But Dibbin realizing an estate in the north of Scotland and Dibbin writing typewritten testimonials of Van Hupfeldt in London on one and the same day was a Mahatma performance, a case of psychic projection which did not enter into the ordinary scheme of things.

Nevertheless, Violet, save for one flash of intensest surprise in those deep eyes of hers, maintained her self-control. She had been so tried already that her mind could withstand any shock. “It is nothing, mother – merely a reference to the Auchlachan affair,” she said, crushing the telegram into a little ball in her hand.

“Ah!” said Mrs. Mordaunt, greatly relieved. “I dreamed of Aunt Jane last night.”

“Well, now,” said Van Hupfeldt, after a bound or two of his heart, “what do you say? Mr. Sharpe will be here soon.”

“You have the certificates and the diary?” said Violet.

“The certificates, yes; not the diary. On calm thought, I have decided irrevocably that the diary shall not be placed in your hands until the lapse of our six months’ agreement. I have yielded every other point; there I am rigid.”

“Do you assign any reason?”

“Yes, my right as your affianced husband to preserve you from the grief and morbidness of reading a record of suffering. I would not have you a weeping bride. When we return from our wedding-tour I shall hand you the diary, no sooner.”

“The certificates, then,” said Violet, composedly.

Van Hupfeldt took two papers from a pocket-book. One recorded the marriage of Henry Van Hupfeldt to Gwendoline Mordaunt at the office of the Brighton registrar. The other was the certificate of the birth of the child in the same town a year later.

It was a fine piece of daring for the man to produce these documents. His own name; his age, thirty eight; his occupation, gentleman, were set forth on the long narrow strip, and the address was given as No. 7, Eddystone Mansions, London, W. Even Mrs. Mordaunt was startled when she glanced over her daughter’s shoulder at the papers.

Suddenly Violet thought she saw a ray of light. “Was this man a brother, some near relative, of yours?” she asked.

“No, no relation.” Van Hupfeldt was taken aback, and the negative flew out before he realized that this might have been a good card to play. But no; Violet would never have married him then.

“What a mystery! To think that he should adopt your name, be of your apparent age, and yet that you should come here to Rigsworth and make our acquaintance!”

“No mystery at all. You drag everything from me like a skilled lawyer. Strauss did more than borrow my name; he forged it. There was a police inquiry. I was called into it. My curiosity was aroused. I learned something of your sister’s story, and I took steps to meet you.”

“Introduced by Lord Vanstone!” murmured Mrs. Mordaunt.

“Yes, some one. I quickly forgot all else when I was granted the privilege of your friendship.”

And he took Violet’s hand and kissed it, with a delicate grace that was courtly in him.