"Anything important?" asked Gore, as the door opened.

"Very important. I have a clue."

It was Victoria, sharp and dark and vixenish as ever, who brought in the tray. But Durham had spoken in low tones, so he did not think she had heard. Besides, he was not so alarmed about her and Judas as he had been. Both were venal, and at any cost their silence would have to be purchased. It would be better for Bernard to lose half his estate than remain a fugitive from justice. Victoria darted a suspicious glance at Bernard, as from the air of mystery surrounding his stay at the castle she thought he was, as she put it, "wanted for something." But she was too clever, and, truth to say, too impotent to move without the co-operation of Jerry Moon. Besides, beyond a mere suspicion, she had nothing to go upon. Queerly enough, she had heard nothing of the murder, but then Mrs. Moon kept her so close that Victoria rarely had an opportunity of indulging her gossipping instincts, of which she had her full share.

When she withdrew, Durham poured out two cups of tea and ate some toast.

Gore waited patiently enough, but there was a restless air about him which showed that his patience was tried severely. At length Durham satisfied his appet.i.te, took the edge off it as it were, and then returned to his seat.

"Bernard," he asked, poking the fire, "you never told me that Sir Simon gave you a check for one thousand pounds?"

Gore started up with an exclamation. "What do you mean? I never received such a large check as that in all my life."

"But your grandfather gave you one in September, payable to bearer."

"No. He certainly did not. You forget that we had quarrelled. From the moment I left the Hall some months ago I never received a penny from him. I lived, as you know, on what little money I inherited from my father. You gave fifty pounds to me yourself."

"I went to the bank," said Durham, with an air of satisfaction, "and asked if such a check had been presented, and by whom?"

"But how did you learn about this check?"

"Oh! I found it amongst Sir Simon's private papers when he died. It had been honored and returned cancelled with the bank-book. I need not have asked if it had been presented, as it had, and had also been paid. But I wanted to examine the whole thing from the beginning. The teller--who knows you--informed me that you presented the check about the beginning of October, and that he paid you the money."

"It is utterly false!" cried Gore, violently.

"Keep your temper, old boy," said Durham, soothingly. "I know that as well as you do. The man who presented the check was dressed as an Imperial Yeoman. He told the teller he had enlisted, and the teller, thinking he was you, wished him good luck."

"But, Mark," said Bernard, much perplexed, "this double of mine must be extraordinarily like me, for the teller knows me well."

"There is a reason for the likeness!" The young man hesitated, wondering if it would be right to tell his friend that Mrs. Gilroy claimed to be the first wife of Walter Gore. On rapid reflection, he decided to say nothing about the matter at present, knowing Bernard's violent temper.

He therefore confined himself to bare detail. "Mrs. Gilroy called at my office," he said slowly, "to complain that the one hundred a year left to her by Sir Simon was not enough."

"Oh, confound Mrs. Gilroy," said Gore, impatiently. "I want to know about this check. This double who presented it must be the fellow who masqueraded in the kitchen."

"And perhaps--who knows?--may have murdered Sir Simon."

"It's not unlikely. Mrs. Gilroy said she admitted someone like me--or, as she thought, me--about ten, and----"

"We'll come to that presently. I examined Jane Riordan, who was courted by this fellow apparently to get into the house. She described you exactly, but when I showed her your likeness she noticed that the mole on your chin was absent from the man who met her."

Bernard involuntarily put up his hand to touch the mole, which was rather conspicuous. "The man had not this mark?" he asked.

"No. So the mole you used to curse at school, Bernard, may be the means of saving your life. Also I got a letter from the girl in which this fellow makes an appointment. Here it is."

Gore examined the letter thrown to him by Durham. "It's like my writing, but it isn't," he said, staring. "In Heaven's name, Mark, what does it all mean?"

"Conspiracy on the part of----"

"Julius Beryl," said Gore, breathlessly.

"I am not prepared to say that; but certainly on the part of Mrs.

Gilroy. While I was wondering who this double who copied even your handwriting and called himself by your name could be, Mrs. Gilroy called on the errand I told you of."

"Well? Well?"

"Don't be impatient, old chap. Well, she demanded more money, and she gave it as her reason for claiming it that your father--" Durham hesitated, wondering how to explain.

"Go on, please," said Gore. "I am on thorns."

"Do you want the truth?"

"Yes, I do. The whole truth."

"Will you promise to keep your temper?"

"Yes. I know I have a bad one, but----"

"Very good. Don't excuse yourself, Bernard. Well, Mrs. Gilroy claimed to be the wife of your father, and----"

Gore started to his feet in a paroxysm of rage. "The wife of my father,"

he repeated. "Why, my mother is dead."

"She said your mother was not the wife of----"

"Oh!" Bernard sprang to his feet with blazing eyes. "Mark!"

The lawyer rose. "Keep your temper. I didn't intend to tell you, knowing how you would receive the news."

"Does this woman dare to say that I am a--a----"

"Bernard, sit down," said Durham, and literally forced the impetuous boy back into his chair. "Behave like a civilized being. Mrs. Gilroy claims to be your father's first wife."

"But if she lives, and if what she says is true, my mother--I--oh--I could kill this woman."

"Gore," said the lawyer, seriously, "don't talk like this; remember what trouble you are now in owing to your former rash words."

"Yes! Yes!" Bernard struck his forehead hard. "I know--I am a fool. I didn't mean--Mark!"--he started up despite the other's efforts to keep him down--"do you believe this?"

"No," said Durham, promptly, "I don't. If Mrs. Gilroy was the real wife, she would not have kept silent so long. But I think she was deceived by a pretended marriage, and that Sir Simon, knowing this, helped her. I always wondered what was the bond between them. Now I know. Your father deceived the woman."

"But why do you think she had anything to do with my father at all, Mark? The whole story may be trumped up."

"I am quite sure that her tale is true, save as to the marriage," was Durham's reply. "I don't say that she might not have been deceived with a pretended marriage, and that she thought all was right. But she is not the real wife. Your mother, born Tolomeo is, and you are legitimately Sir Bernard Gore."

"But your reason for thinking she speaks truly?"

"I will give one; a sufficient one. Mrs. Gilroy declared that her son, Michael Gore--so she termed him--was the heir. She explained that there could be no deception, as he is the image of his father."

"Oh!" Bernard started to his feet, seeing light. "And I am the image of my father, as was always said. This man must be----"