“Seems to me,” he said at last, “that once when he was pretty mad at his luck I heard him grumbling about English laws, and he said some of his distant relations were swell people who would never think of speaking to him,--perhaps didn't know he was alive,--and they lived in a big way in a place that was named after the family. He never saw it or them, and he said that was the way in England--one fellow got everything and the rest were paupers like himself. He'd always been poor.” “Yes, the relation was a distant one. Until this investigation began the family knew nothing of him. The inquiry has been a tiresome one. I trust I am reaching the end of it. We have given nearly two years to following this clue.” “What for?” burst forth Tembarom, sitting upright. “Because it was necessary to find either George Temple Barholm or his son, if he had one.” “I'm his son, all right, but he died when I was eight years old,” Tembarom volunteered. “I don't remember much about him.” “You remember that he was not an American?” “He was English. Hated it; but he wasn't fond of America.” “Have you any papers belonging to him?” Tembarom hesitated again. “There's a few old letters--oh, and one of those glass photographs in a case. I believe it's my grandfather and grandmother, taken when they were married. Him on a chair, you know, and her standing with her hand on his shoulder.” “Can you show them to me?” Palford suggested. “Sure,” Tembarom answered, getting up from his seat “They're in my room. I turned them up yesterday among some other things.” When he left them, Mr. Palford sat gently rubbing his chin. Hutchinson wanted to burst forth with questions, but he looked so remote and acidly dignified that there was a suggestion of boldness in the idea of intruding on his reflections. Hutchinson stared at him and breathed hard and short in his suspense. The stiff old chap was thinking things over and putting things together in his lawyer's way. He was entirely oblivious to his surroundings. Little Ann went on with her mending, but she wore her absorbed look, and it was not a result of her work. Tembarom came back with some papers in his hand. They were yellowed old letters, and on the top of the package there was a worn daguerreotype-case with broken clasp. “Here they are,” he said, giving them to Palford. “I guess they'd just been married,” opening the case. “Get on to her embroidered collar and big breast-pin with his picture in it. That's English enough, isn't it? He'd given it to her for a wedding-present. There's something in one of the letters about it.” It was the letters to which Mr. Palford gave the most attention. He read them and examined post-marks and dates. When he had finished, he rose from his chair with a slightly portentous touch of professional ceremony. “Yes, those are sufficiently convincing. You are a very fortunate young man. Allow me to congratulate you.”