On returning to London, the attorney examined the register of St. Andrew’s Undershaft, and made a copy of the entry of a marriage on June 19, 1659, between Eustace Rochester, bachelor, of St. Andrew’s parish, and Lucy Fleming, spinster, of Hungerford. The information given by Gaffer Minshull and Mrs. Pemberton was then embodied in affidavits, and the whole case being complete, Mr. Tape laid the result of his investigations before Madame de Vaudrey and her daughter, and asked for their instructions. Harry had listened to Adèle’s story, as they rambled round and round the park, with a strange mixture of emotions. Astonishment was perhaps the dominant one, but there was also the happiness of knowing something about his family, and dismay at the knowledge that he, and not Adèle, was the rightful owner of the Berkeley estates. "Why, then you are my cousin, Adèle!" he said. "Yes, Harry,—and you are head of the family." "How plain it makes everything! And do you know, I pity the wretched old man who has lived for nearly fifty years with these crimes on his conscience. He must have led a miserable life." "That is why I am glad all is discovered. I should lead a miserable life too if I found I was enjoying what did not belong to me." "But that is nonsense, Adèle. You don’t imagine I shall take the estates? Not I. The good folks here adore you already; I won’t take from them their lady squire." "You must." "No, no! Only weak or foolish sovereigns abdicate, Adèle: you are not weak or foolish. Besides, I have my career. I am on the high road to preferment. Prince Eugene has given me a regiment, and—I didn’t mean to tell you this—promises me an estate and a title in Austria." "And you know perfectly well that you would rather be plain Mr. Berkeley, an English squire, than count or prince or royal highness in Austria. No; I will not listen to you: if you insist on being an Austrian—well, I shall give up the estates to the crown: Queen Anne shall be lady of the manor." "You cannot: you are not of age, and Madame would never hear of it." "Mr. Henry Berkeley, I have only two years to wait." They had come round to the gate leading from the park to the graveyard. "Come and see the monument the people put up in the church to your father, Harry," said Adèle, with a change of tone. He opened the gate for her; she passed through, then turned, and said: "It is you or Queen Anne, Mr. Berkeley." Harry was on the other side of the gate. They looked into each other’s eyes. He knew her strength of character: he had no doubt that she would do anything to which she had made up her mind. He was troubled, and, resting his arms on the upper bar of the gate, stood thus pondering. "Adèle," he said presently, "but for me you would stay at the Hall?" "If I were the rightful owner, certainly; but now it is clearly impossible." "Not quite impossible, Adèle, even so." He waited for an answer, but she was unexpectedly silent, her eyes cast down.