"How did you learn that he was alive?" "Through his son, whom I invited into my house, after he was brought to this city by yourself." "Have you recently visited the cemetery at Sevenoaks?" "I have, sir." "Did you see the grave of your sister-in-law?" "I did." "Was there a headstone upon the grave?" "There was a humble one." "What inscription did it bear?" "Jane Kendrick, wife of Paul Benedict." "When and where did you see your brother first, after your separation?" "Early last summer at a place called Number Nine." "Did you recognise him?" "I did, at once." "Has anything occurred, in the intercourse of the summer, to make you suspect that the man whom you recognised as your brother was an impostor?" "Nothing. We have conversed with perfect familiarity on a thousand events and circumstances of our early life. I know him to be my brother as well as I know my own name, and my own identity." "That is all," said Mr. Balfour. "Mrs. Dillingham," said Mr. Cavendish after holding a long whispered conversation with his client, "you were glad to find your brother at last, were you not?" "Very glad, sir." "Why?" "Because I was sorry for the misery which I had inflicted upon him, and to which I had exposed him." "You were the victim of remorse, as I understand you?" "Yes, sir; I suppose so." "Were you conscious that your condition of mind unfitted you to discriminate? Were you not so anxious to find your brother, in order to quiet your conscience, that you were easily imposed upon." "No, sir, to both questions." "Well, madam, such things have happened. Have you been in the habit of receiving Mr. Belcher at your house?" "I have." "You have been in the habit of receiving gentlemen rather indiscriminately at your house, haven't you?" "I object to the question," said Mr. Balfour quickly. "It carries a covert insult to the witness." Mrs. Dillingham bowed to Mr. Balfour in acknowledgment of his courtesy, but answered the question. "I have received you, sir, and Mr. Belcher. I may have been indiscriminate in my courtesies. A lady living alone cannot always tell." A titter ran around the court-room, in which Mr. Belcher joined. His admiration was too much at the moment for his self-interest. "Did you know before you went to Number Nine, that your brother was there?" inquired Mr. Cavendish. "I did, and the last time but one at which Mr. Belcher called upon me I informed him of the fact." "That your brother was there?" "No, that Paul Benedict was there." "How did you know he was there?" "His little boy wrote me from there, and told me so." Mr. Cavendish had found more than he sought. He wanted to harass the witness, but he had been withheld by his client. Baffled on one hand and restrained on the other--for Mr. Belcher could not give her up, and learn to hate her in a moment--he told the witness he had no more questions to ask. Mrs. Dillingham drew down her veil again, and walked to her seat.