“He is Mr. Boughton’s nephew; and he left his uncle’s office because the duties were too arduous for his health.” “He left his uncle’s office because he was kicked out of it. Do you mean to tell me that you have married him—a man who never did a day’s work in his life, or paid a bill that he owed? And as for writing, I don’t believe one word of it. It’s not a month ago that his uncle told me of some old woman, his landlady, forsooth! who had been to him with a long bill——” “It was for his professional chambers. A man in his position requires them.” “Yes; and he’d been sponging on the woman’s mother, too, in the country. Were you with him?” “No, William, I was not”—and, suddenly, a load was lifted from Aunt Anne’s heart. The mystery of Liphook appeared to be solved, and Alfred Wimple’s account of his debts to be verified. A world of tenderness rushed back into her heart and gave her strength and courage to fight her battle to the end. “No, I was not with him,” she repeated; and as she looked up a smile, a look of almost happiness, was on her face, that made her cousin more wonder-struck than ever. “He required country air to invigorate him, and our means would not admit of——” “Boughton has been allowing you a hundred a year,” said Sir William; “and this Wimple has married you,” he went on, a light seeming to break upon him. “I am beginning to understand it. I presume he knows that you are my cousin?” “Yes, I told him that you were—he spoke of you with admiration,” Aunt Anne added, always more anxious to say something gratifying to her listener than to be strictly veracious. “I have no doubt he did. Pray, when did this fine love-making begin?” Sir William asked scornfully. “Nearly a year ago,” she answered, in a faltering voice, for she was almost beaten, in spite of the relief that had been given her a minute or two ago. “And when did Boughton begin to allow you this hundred a year?” “About the time of my marriage.” “I perfectly understand. I’ll tell you the reason of your marriage and of his love for you in a moment.” With an effort he stretched out his hand and touched the bell. “Charles,” he said, when the servant entered, “unlock my safe.” The man pulled back a curtain that had been drawn across a recess to hide an iron door. “On the top of the shelf to the left you will see a blue envelope labelled ‘Last Will and Testament.’ Give it to me,” Sir William said. A scared look broke over Aunt Anne’s face; and she watched the proceedings breathlessly. “Lock the safe and go—no, stop—give me some brandy first.” The servant poured a little into a glass from a bottle which stood on the writing-table between the windows. The old man’s hand shook while he took it. Aunt Anne, looking at him like a culprit waiting for punishment, noticed a blackness round his mouth, and that the lines in his face were rigid. “Shall I bring you some chicken-broth, Sir William?” the servant asked.