Mr. Gus looked round upon them all with excitement, in which there was a gleam of triumph. “I am not out of my senses. With such a wrong done to me I might have been; but I never knew of it till lately. And, mind you, I don’t blame _them_ as if they knew it. If you are the lawyer, I have brought you all the papers, honest and above-board. There they are, my mother’s certificates and mine. Ask anybody in the island of Barbadoes,” cried Mr. Gus; “bless you, it was not done in a corner; it was never made a secret of. From the Governor to the meanest black, there isn’t one but knows it all as well as I.” He had thrust a packet of papers into Mr. Scrivener’s hand, and now stood with one arm extended, like a speaker addressing with energetic, yet conciliatory warmth, a hostile assembly. But no one paid any attention to Mr. Gus. The interest had gone from him to the lawyer who was opening up with care and precaution the different papers. Colonel Fleetwood stood behind Mr. Scrivener eagerly reading them over his shoulder, chafing at his coolness. “Get on, can’t you?” he cried, under his breath. They were enough to appal the inexperienced eye. To this astonished spectator looking on, the lines of the marriage certificate seemed to blaze as if written in fire. It was as if a bolt from heaven had fallen among them. The chief sufferers themselves were stunned by the shock of a sudden horror which they did not realise. What did it mean? A kind of pale light came over Lady Markham’s face: she began to remember the Lennys and their eccentric visit. She put out her hand as one who has begun to grasp a possible clue. At this moment of intense and painful bewilderment, a sudden chuckle burst into the quiet. It was poor old Mr. Markham, whose hopes had been disappointed, who had never forgiven Sir William Markham’s children for being born. “Gad! I always felt sure there was a previous marriage,” he said, mumbling with old toothless jaws. Only the stillness of such a pause would have made this senile voice of malice audible. Even the old man himself was abashed to hear how audible it was. “A previous marriage!” Colonel Fleetwood went hurriedly to his sister, and took her by the shoulders in fierce excitement, as if she could be to blame. “What does this mean, Isabel?” he cried; “did you know of it? did you consent to it? does it mean, my God! that you have never been this man’s wife at all?” She turned upon him with a flash of energy and passion. “How dare you speak of my husband so--my husband who was honour itself and truth?” Then the poor lady covered her face with her hands. Her heart sank, her strength forsook her. Who could tell what hidden things might be revealed by the light of this sudden horrible illumination. “I can’t tell you. I do not know! I do not know!”