It was five minutes past nine when I entered the great salon of the hotel and looked round for Lord Langerdale. My search was not a long one. He was sitting alone at a table laid for three in one of the deep recesses, with a little pile of letters and a newspaper before him. Directly he saw me he pushed them away and held out his hand. "Good-morning!" he said pleasantly. "I'm glad to see you're so punctual. You're not in a hurry for breakfast for a few minutes, are you?" "Not at all," I answered, taking the chair which he pushed towards me. "That's right. My wife will be down in a quarter of an hour, and we'll wait for her, if you don't mind." I bowed my assent, murmuring that I should be delighted, which was perfectly true. Lord Langerdale turned a little round in his chair so as to face me and began at once: "I am rather a blunt sort of man, Mr. Morton--we Irish generally are, you know--and I like to go straight at a thing. Will you tell me your mother's maiden name?" "I would with pleasure if I knew it," I answered readily; "but I don't." "Is she alive?" I shook my head. "She died about nine months ago." "And Morton is your name? May I ask who your father was?" "Certainly. He was a farmer in Leicestershire." "A farmer?" Lord Langerdale looked surprised and I fancied a little disappointed. "Was he your mother's first husband?" I was about to answer in the affirmative, but remembered that I had no certain knowledge, so I corrected myself. "You may think it strange, Lord Langerdale," I said, "but I know nothing of my mother's antecedents, nor of her family. From my earliest recollection she never mentioned her past, nor permitted others to do so. There was some mystery connected with it, I am sure; but what it was I have no clue. "I could not help observing, as everyone else did, that she was far above my father from a social point of view, for she was an educated lady and he was only a small tenant farmer. Throughout all her life she was reticent, and her last act before she died was a paradox. She left me to the guardianship of the man whom she had always before seemed to dread and fear." "What is his name?" "Mr. Ravenor, of Ravenor Castle. We were tenants of his." "My God!" Lord Langerdale's whole appearance was that of a man strongly agitated. He turned his head away for a moment, and the long, white fingers which supported it were shaking visibly. I, too, was moved, for it seemed as though the time were come at last when something of my mother's history would be made known to me. But he seemed in no hurry to speak again. It was I who had to remind him of my presence. "Lord Langerdale," I cried, my voice, despite all my efforts, trembling with eagerness, "you know who my mother was? You can tell me her history?" He turned round slowly. "One more question," he said. "Are you sure that you were born at Ravenor?"