"From his likeness to my lost darling--my dear boy--my poor, precious, murdered Guy," answered the old lady, lying back, and looking straight toward the ceiling with upturned eyes and clasped hands. She repeated--"Oh! Guy--Guy--Guy--my poor child!" She looked like a dying nun praying to her patron saint. "His name is Strangways--Mr. Guy Strangways," said Beatrix. "Ah, yes, darling! Guy was the name of my dear boy, and Strangways was the name of his companion--an evil companion, I dare say." Beatrix knew that the young man whom her grandmamma mourned had fallen in a duel, and that, reasonably or unreasonably, her father was blamed in the matter. More than this she had never heard. Lady Alice had made her acquainted with thus much; but with preambles so awful that she had never dared to open the subject herself, or to question her "Granny" beyond the point at which her disclosure had stopped. That somehow it reflected on Sir Jekyl prevented her from inquiring of any servant, except old Donica, who met her curiosity with a sound jobation, and told her if ever she plagued her with questions about family misfortunes like that, she would speak to Sir Jekyl about it. Thus Beatrix only knew how Guy Deverell had died--that her grandmamma chose to believe he had been murdered, and insisted beside in blaming her father, Sir Jekyl, somehow for the catastrophe. CHAPTER XXII. How Everything went on. "Go down, dear, to your company," resumed Lady Alice, sadly; "they will miss you. And tell your father, when he comes to the drawing-room, I wish to see him, and won't detain him long." So they parted, and a little later Sir Jekyl arrived with a knock at the old lady's bed-room door. "Come in--oh! yes--Jekyl--well, I've only a word to say. Sit down a moment at the bedside." "And how do you feel now, you dear old soul?" inquired the Baronet, cheerfully. He looked strong and florid, as gentleman do after dinner, with a genial air of contentment, and a fragrance of his wonderful sherry about him; all which seemed somehow brutal to the nervous old lady. "Wonderfully, considering the surprise you had prepared for me, and which might as well have killed me as not," she made answer. "I know, to be sure--Strangways, you mean. Egad! I forgot. Trixie ought to have told you." "_You_ ought to have told me. I don't think I should have come here, Jekyl, had I known it." "If I had known _that_," thought Sir Jekyl, with a regretful pang, "I'd have made a point of telling you." But he said aloud--