"Perhaps she will come back."

"No! She has taken her box with her. She had only one, I believe. I daresay she has taken fright over what she let out to me the other day about that precious son of hers"--here Durham remembered that, so far as he knew, Alice was ignorant of Michael Gore's existence. She interpreted the look.

"You can speak freely, Mr. Durham," she said. "Bernard has just told me all about the matter."

"Good," said the solicitor, evidently relieved, as it did not necessitate his entering into a long explanation, of which he was rather impatient. "Then you know that Bernard and I suspect Michael Gore----"

"He has no right to that name," said Bernard, peremptorily.

"Well, then, Michael Gilroy, though for all we know his mother may not have a right to that name either. But to come to the point. This disappearance of the woman makes me more certain than ever that she alone can tell the story of that night."

"And she won't tell it if it incriminates her son," said Alice.

"No, that's certain. I made inquiries----"

"You must have been quick about it," observed Gore, glancing at his watch. "It is barely three o'clock."

"I went at once to make inquiries," said Durham. "Mrs. Gilroy ordered the trap overnight and had her box removed, though how she managed it without the servants at the Hall knowing, I am not prepared to say. But she did, and went to the Postleigh station. There she took a ticket to London. She is lost there now"--here Durham made a gesture of despair--"and goodness knows when we will set eyes on her again."

"I can tell you that," put in Alice, briskly, and both men looked inquiringly at her. "She will reappear when she is able to establish the fact that Michael is the heir."

"Which means that she must prove her own marriage, if there was any--begging your pardon, Miss Malleson--to have taken place prior to that of Walter Gore with Signora Tolomeo."

"My uncle will be able to prove that."

"I'll see him about it, as there is some difficulty in knowing where your parents were married, Bernard. Your father kept the marriage a secret from you grandfather. Afterwards, Sir Simon received your mother at the Hall, and was fairly friendly with her. I don't think he ever became quite reconciled to your father."

"Well! well!" said Bernard, hastily, "let us leave that point alone for the present. What are we to do now?"

"We must have a counsel of war. By the way, Conniston is stopping at the Hall till this evening, Bernard. He will be back at dinner."

Alice smiled. "I think Lord Conniston is enjoying himself."

"You mean with Miss Randolph," said Durham. "I devoutly wish he may take a fancy to that lady----"

"I think he has," put in Bernard, smiling also.

"All the better. If he makes her Lady Conniston, it will be a good day's work. Only marriage will tame Conniston. I have had no end of trouble with him. He _is_ a trial."

"Oh, Lucy is a clever girl, and can guide him if she becomes his wife, Mr. Durham. And now that her engagement is broken with Mr. Beryl, I daresay it will come off--the marriage I mean. She seems to be attracted by Lord Conniston."

"And small wonder," said Miss Berengaria, entering at this moment. "I really think Conniston is a nice fellow--much better than Bernard, here."

"I won't hear that, aunt," said Alice, indignantly.

"My dear, I always speak my mind. How are you, Durham?" added the old lady, turning on the dapper solicitor. "You look worried."

"Mrs. Gilroy has bolted."

Miss Berengaria rubbed her nose. "The deuce take the woman! Why has she done that? I always thought she was a bad lot."

"Do you know anything about her, aunt?"

"Yes, I do, and much more than she likes. She's a gipsy."

"I thought she was," said Durham, remembering the Romany dialect used by the housekeeper, "but she doesn't look like a gipsy."

"Well," said Miss Berengaria, rubbing her nose again and taking a seat, "she's not a real gipsy, but I believe some tribe in the New Forest--the Lovels, I understand--picked her up, and looked after her. All I know of her dates from the time she came to Hurseton, with the gipsies. She was then a comely young woman, and I believe Walter Gore admired her."

"My father," said Bernard, coloring.

"I beg your pardon, my dear," said the old lady. "I can't say good of your father, and I won't say bad, so let me hold my tongue."

"No," said Durham, rather to the surprise of the others. "Now you have said so much, Miss Plantagenet, you must say all."

"All what?" demanded the old lady, aggressively.

"Well, you see, Mrs. Gilroy claims to have married Walter Gore."

"Then she's a liar," said Miss Berengaria, emphatically and vulgarly.

"Why, Walter was married to your mother, Bernard, at that time."

"Are you sure?" he asked eagerly.

"Of course I am. I don't make any statements unless I am sure. It was after the marriage; for Sir Simon--I was friends with him then--consulted me about your father having married the Italian woman--begging your pardon again, Bernard. I then learned the date of the marriage and it was quite three years afterwards that Walter saw Mrs. Gilroy. I don't know what she called herself then. But she disappeared, and I understand from Sir Simon she married Walter under the impression he was a single man--drat the profligate!" added Miss Berengaria.

"Then the son----"

"Son!" echoed the old lady, turning to Durham, who had spoken. "You don't mean to say there is a son?"

"Yes." And Durham, thinking it best to be explicit, gave a detailed account of Mrs. Gilroy's interview. Miss Berengaria listened with great attention, and gave her verdict promptly.

"It's as plain as the nose on my face," she said. "Mrs. Gilroy was really married as she thought, but when she came to see Sir Simon--and that was after the death of both of your parents, my dear," she interpolated, turning to Gore, "she must have learned the truth. I think the old rascal--no, I won't speak evil of the dead--but the good old man"--her hearers smiled at this--"the good old saint was sorry for her.

He made her the housekeeper and promised to provide for her after his death."

"Five hundred a year, she says," put in Durham.

"Ah! I can't conceive Simon Gore parting with money to that extent,"

said Miss Berengaria, dryly, "especially to one who had no claim upon him whatsoever."

"You don't think she had."

"Deuce take the man! Don't I say so? Of course she hadn't. Walter Gore deceived her--begging your pardon for the third time, Bernard--but Sir Simon acted very well by her. I will say that. As to there being a son, I never heard. But if this--what do you call him?"

"Michael Gilroy."

"Well, if Michael Gilroy is the image of Bernard, who is the image of his father in looks, though I hope not in conduct, there is no doubt that he was the man admitted by Mrs. Gilroy, who killed Sir Simon. Of course, she will fight tooth and nail for her son. I daresay--I am convinced that it is fear of what she said to you, Mr. Durham, that has made her go away. And a good riddance of bad rubbish, say I," concluded the old spinster, vigorously, "and for goodness' sake, where's the luncheon? I'm starving."

This speech provoked a laugh, and as everyone's nerves were rather worn by the position of affairs, it was decided to banish all further discussion until the meal was over. Miss Berengaria without being told took the head of the table. "I represent the family in the absence of that silly young donkey," she said.