"Because I had a letter from Eleanor only three days ago, written from Stammars, the residence of Sir Thomas Dudgeon, where I find that she is visiting. She talks of coming to London with Lady Dudgeon very shortly, and says that her ladyship treats her quite as one of the family--proof positive that Eleanor is still living on in happy ignorance." "Perhaps the lawyer did not know where to find me? Perhaps he has delayed breaking the news to Eleanor on that account?" "No: I suspect that there is some other motive at the bottom of Matthew Kelvin's strange silence. He has sense enough to know that any letter addressed to you at Brexly would be sure to find you. He knows all about Brexly, and the quarrel between your father and Mr. Lloyd." "Kelvin--Matthew Kelvin?" said Gerald, musingly. "I seem to have heard that name before." "You can readily understand why I never breathed even the faintest suspicion of the truth to Eleanor. Such a revelation would be too painful for me to make to a person whom I have known and loved from a child. Therefore I have sent for you: and my advice is that you at once go down to Pembridge, see Mr. Kelvin, give him to understand that you know everything, and demand from him an explanation of his singular silence." "Is this Mr. Kelvin aware that you have any knowledge of the real facts of the case?" "No: I am convinced that he has no such knowledge." "His silence certainly seems rather singular; but we shall probably find on inquiry that he has been ill, or away from home, or something of that sort." Miss Bellamy shook her head. She was far from being convinced. "A clever schemer, but not to be trusted," she said, presumably with reference to Kelvin. "But about this cousin who is no cousin--about Eleanor," said Gerald. "You know that I have never seen her. What is she like? Is she good-looking? Is she nice?" "I don't know what you young gentlemen call nice," said Miss Bellamy. "I don't see young ladies with the eyes that you see them with. Eleanor Lloyd is a dear good girl; slightly impulsive, perhaps, but open and honest as the day--a girl that any man might be proud to call his wife." Gerald pursed his lips a little. Miss Bellamy's outline was too vague to take his fancy. "A country-bred hoyden, evidently, with red cheeks and large hands, and a healthy appetite," he muttered to himself. "There is one point that you have not enlightened me upon," he said presently. "But perhaps it is one on which I have no right to question you." "Tell me what it is." "You say that Eleanor, when an infant, was adopted by my uncle and aunt. She must have been somebody's child. You have not yet told me who and what her friends were." Miss Bellamy's face became more grave and troubled than Gerald had yet seen it. "Pardon me," he said, "if I have unintentionally wounded your feelings."