“Perhaps not, dear,” she answered quietly, “but since there is no escape we must accept the inevitable; doubtless things will settle themselves sooner or later. And now there is another matter of which I want to speak to you. You know your father-in-law is very ill, dying indeed, and yesterday he telegraphed for me to come to see him from London. What do you think that he had to tell me?” Henry shook his head. “This: that I am his legitimate daughter; for it seems that in marrying your wife’s mother he committed bigamy, although he did not mean to do so.” “Oh! this is too much,” said Henry. “Either you are mistaken, Joan, or we are all living in a web of lies and intrigues.” “I do not think that I am mistaken.” Then briefly, but with perfect clearness, she repeated to him the story that Mr. Levinger had told her on the previous night, producing in proof of it the certificates of her mother’s marriage and of her own birth. “Why, then,” he burst out when she had finished, “this old rogue has betrayed me as well as you! Now I understand why he was so anxious that I should marry his daughter. Did _she_ know anything of this, Joan?” “Not a word. Do not blame her, Henry, for she is innocent, and it is in order that she may never know, that I have repeated this story to you. Look, there go the proofs of it—the only ones.” And taking the two certificates, she tore them into a hundred fragments and scattered them to the winds. “What are you doing?” he said. “But it does not matter; they are only copies.” “It will be difficult for you to find the originals,” she answered, with a sad smile, “for I was careful that you should see neither the name of the parish where my mother was married, nor the place of the registration of my birth.” “I will get those out of _him,_ he said grimly, nodding his head towards the house. “If you care for me at all, Henry, you will do nothing of the sort—for your wife’s sake. I have been nameless so long that I can well afford to remain so; but should Lady Graves discover the secret of her birth and of her father’s conduct, it would half kill her.” “That is true, Joan; and yet justice should be done to you. Oh! was ever man placed so cruelly? What you have said about the money is just, for it is Emma’s by right, but the name is yours.” “Yes, Henry; but remember that if you make a stir about the name, attempts will certainly be made to rob your wife of her fortune.” “By whom?” “By my husband, to whose house I must now be going.” For a few moments there was silence, then Joan spoke again:— “I forgot, Henry: I have something to give you that you may like to keep,” and she took a tiny packet from her breast. “What is it?” he said, shrinking back a little. “Only—a lock of the—baby’s hair.” And she kissed it and gave it to him. He placed the paper in his purse calmly enough. Then he broke down.