‘Your story’s new to me, Josh,’ said Marston, quietly, ‘and I didn’t know poor Gertie was dead, for I left England soon after that affair, as you know.’ ‘Yes, you left in a hurry, though nobody ever knew why.’ ‘That was my business,’ answered Marston, with the air of a man who declined to be questioned; ‘but I left in total ignorance of anything but the attack on Ralph.’ ‘Some of us thought that was why you did leave.’ ‘I had nothing to do with it,’ said Marston; ‘but I can tell you what you evidently don’t know—your daughter had a sweetheart. One of the men who came here came only to see her. He met her here first, and afterwards they used to go about together in the day-time. One of the men who used your house night after night was Gertie’s lover.’ ‘Tell me his name,’ cried Heckett, springing to his feet, with a face livid with rage. ‘Tell me his name, and by Heaven I’ll kill him like a dog.’ ‘No, you won’t,’ said Marston. ‘Sit down.’ He pushed the old man back on to the box. ‘Now listen. The man who loved your girl, who met her day after day, and who only came to your den of thieves for her sake, was——’ Marston paused. ‘Quick!’ gasped Heckett; ‘tell it me quick! His name—his name?’ ‘Ralph Egerton!’ said Marston. The old man’s clenched fist dropped to his side. At that moment Gertie came in from her walk, Heckett called her to him and looked earnestly in her face. ‘By Jove, Marston!’ he exclaimed, ‘I believe you’re right.’ CHAPTER XIII. THE MASTER OF EDEN VILLA. There is a quiet little turning out of the Camden Road, where the whim of an architect has planted some hybrid arrangements in brick and woodwork which it would puzzle the unskilled in architectural nomenclature properly to describe. They might be chalets if they were less like _cottages ornés_; they might be _cottages ornés_ if they were less like bungalows; and they might be bungalows if there were not so much of the suburban villa about them. It is possible that the architect in preparing the plans saw, like a distinguished statesman, that there were three courses open to him, and, being a man who had some slight difficulty in making up his mind, determined to effect a compromise, and erect buildings which should embrace chalet, bungalow, and _cottage orné_, and also betray a suggestion of the suburban villa. The houses are pretty enough in their way, are nicely set back in picturesque little gardens, and just the kind of places which a house agent can describe as ‘charming bijou residences.’ It is not often that one of them displays an agent’s board, for they are quickly snapped up by persons who wish to live in a pretty house and still have the benefit of a good shopping neighbourhood, and whatever advantages may accrue from a ‘close proximity to rail, ’bus, and tram.’