‘Scarcely,’ replied Lucius. ‘I believe you are right, and that Lucille is of no kin to your son.’ ‘And of no kin to me. You are glad of that, I suppose,’ said the old man with a touch of bitterness. ‘Forgive me if I confess that I shall be glad if I find she is not the child of your son.’ ‘You are right. Can an evil tree bear good fruit? That seems a hard saying, but I can’t wonder you shrink from the idea of owning Ferdinand Sivewright for your children’s grandfather. Yet this H. G. may have been no better man.’ ‘I can hardly think that. There is some indication of good feeling in his letters. He was most likely the dupe and victim—’ ‘Of my son? Yes, I can believe that. Go on, Lucius. The third letter is from the lady, who, you will see, signs herself by her Christian name only, but gives her full address.’ ‘That must afford some clue to the mystery,’ said Lucius. ‘Yes, for any one who will take the trouble to follow so slight a clue. I have never attempted the task. To accomplish it might have been to lose the only creature that loved me. You will call this selfish policy, no doubt. Lucille’s interests ought to have weighed with me more than my own. I can only answer, that old age is selfish. When a man has but a few years between him and the grave, he may well shrink from the idea of making those years desolate.’ ‘I do not wonder that you feared to lose her,’ said Lucius. He opened the letter numbered 3. It was in that delicate foreign hand, on thin paper. ‘Rue Jeanne d’Arques, numéro 17, Rouen. ‘Dear Sir,—Not having received a satisfactory response from Mr. G., I venture to address you, believing that you will compassionate my anxieties. I wish to hear more of your charge. Is she well? is she happy? O, sir, have pity upon the heart which pines for her—to which this enforced separation is a living death! Does she grow? does she remember me, and ask for me? Yet, considering her tender age at the time of our parting, that is hardly possible. I ought to be thankful that it is so—that she will not suffer any of the pangs which rend my sorrowful heart. But in spite of that thought, it grieves me to know that she will lose all memory of my face, all love for me. It is a hard trial; and it may last for years. Heaven knows if I shall live to see the end of it. ‘I entreat you, sir, to pity one who is most grateful for your friendly help at a time when it was needed, and to let me have a full account of the little girl. ‘I am quite content to submit to Mr. G.’s desire that, for the next few years of her life, she shall have no friends but those she has in your house; yet I can but think that, at her age, residence in a London house, and above all a house of business, must be harmful. I should be very glad could you make some arrangement for her to live, at least part of the year, a little way out of town, with people you could fully trust.