“Does anything strike you, Sir Geoffrey? God knows that I want the light to come to you not too suddenly.” “I am helplessly in the dark.” “Please look at Sir Rupert’s portrait, and then at me.” Sir Geoffrey did so, and was none the wiser. He said as much. Fishpingle said quietly: “I am his son.” Sir Geoffrey jumped up. “My father’s son—you. It’s a wicked lie.” “Is it? Look again!” Sir Geoffrey glared first at Fishpingle and then at the picture. He said irresolutely: “No, no—it can’t be. And yet—and yet, there _is_ a look. My father’s—son?” “Yes.” “How long have you known this?” “Since Lady Alicia died.” “My grandmother knew?” “Everything.” “Is there evidence to support this—a—affirmation?” Fishpingle put his hand into his pocket and produced a bundle of letters. “These.” He moved to the desk and handed them to the Squire, continuing in the same quiet voice: “They were written by Sir Rupert to my mother. If you glance at one you will recognise the handwriting.” Sir Geoffrey untied the silk riband, and took the first letter. He put on his pince-nez. As he did so, Fishpingle saw that his fingers were trembling. He took off the pince-nez and rubbed the lenses, but they were clean and clear. “It is my father’s writing.” “Read the beginning and the end.” Sir Geoffrey did so. The letter fluttered from his hand. He lay back in his chair, murmuring: “His Dream Wife! His Dream Wife!” Then, as another thought came to him, he jumped up excitedly. “My father calls your mother his ‘dream wife.’ Does that mean that he married her? Are you his lawful son—his eldest son?” Fishpingle drew himself up. “No. I am a Son of Sorrow.” “My God! My God!” “I would not have you think ill of my mother. Sir Rupert wished to marry her. It is all in those letters. I am proud of the woman to whom they were written. This is her miniature.” He handed the miniature to Sir Geoffrey, who gazed at it long and searchingly. “A beautiful creature, Ben, and a good.” “Yes. She gave to the man she loved everything; she asked nothing. This letter,” he took another from his pocket, “was written to me by Lady Alicia. I read it first, standing by her grave.” “I want no more proof, Ben.” “Please read it.” Sir Geoffrey did so. This was the letter: “MY DEAR BOY,