‘I am glad you have enjoyed your dinner, Mr. Elgood. I am of opinion that a good dinner is the best prelude to a serious conversation; and I want to have a little quiet and confidential talk with you this evening upon a very serious matter.’ ‘Behold me at your service,—your slave to command,’ answered Matthew, whose enthusiasm was not easily to be damped. ‘I bare my bosom to your view,’ he added, with a dramatic gesture, indicative of throwing open his waistcoat. They were alone by this time. The servant had carried away the dinner-things, and only the decanters and fruit dishes remained on the table. ‘You speak boldly, Mr. Elgood,’ said Maurice, with sudden gravity, ‘yet, perhaps, if I were to ask you some questions about your past life you would draw back a little.’ ‘My past life, although full of vicissitude, has been honest,’ answered the comedian. ‘I fear no man’s scrutiny.’ ‘Good. Then you will not be angry if I question you rather closely upon one period of your chequered career. It is in the interest of your—of Justina that I do so.’ ‘Proceed, sir,’ said Matthew, a troubled look overclouding the countenance which had just now beamed with serenity. ‘Did you ever hear the name of Eden?’ Mr. Elgood started, more violently than he had done on a previous occasion at the mention of Borcel End. The silver dessert knife with which he was pealing a Jersey pear dropped from between his fingers. ‘I see you do know that name,’ said Maurice, passing from interrogation to affirmation. ‘You bore it once at Borcel End, the old farm house on the Cornish moors, where you took shelter in bitter winter weather, just nineteen years ago last February.’ The glow which the good things of this life had kindled in Mr. Elgood’s visage faded slowly out, and left him very pale. ‘How did you know that?’ he gasped. ‘I had it from the lips of a dying woman—Mrs. Trevanard.’ ‘What! is Mrs. Trevanard dead?’ ‘Yes; she died a fortnight ago.’ ‘And she told you——?’ ‘All. The birth of the child she entrusted to your care. The old family Bible she gave you, from which you took the name of Justina.’ The shrewd guess, stated as a fact, passed uncontradicted. Maurice’s speculative assertion had hit the truth. ‘The supposed daughter who has borne your name all these years, the girl who has worked for you, who now maintains you, who has been faithful, obedient, and devoted to you, has not one drop of your blood in her veins. She is Muriel Trevanard’s child.’