"An idle dream," she said, "about a worthless man!" CHAPTER XVII. THE SECOND BLOW. Three days after this conversation, the amateur detective on his first job arrived in London with the midday train from Birmingham. He was in a state of happiness and triumph almost superhuman. For he brought with him, as he believed, the conclusion of the matter. Alone, single-handed, he had discovered the plot; the proofs were in his hands. He was on his way to compel the guilty to submission, to subdue the proud, to send the rich empty away. Poetical justice would be done; his half-brother would be restored to his fraternal arms; and Molly would be free. I say there was no happier man than this poor credulous Richard to be found anywhere than in that third-class carriage. He wanted no paper to read; he sat in a kind of cloud of glorious congratulations. Everything was proved; there was but one step possible--that of surrender absolute. Two letters preceded his arrival. One was for Molly. "Expect me to-morrow evening," he said. "I bring great news; but do not say anything to Alice. The news should be still greater than what I have to tell you." The other was for Lady Woodroffe. "MADAM" (he wrote) "I have to inform you that I have made a discovery closely connected with you. The discovery is (1) that the only son of the late Sir Humphrey Woodroffe, the first baronet, died at Birmingham, on February 5th, 1874, and is buried there; and (2) that he died at the Great Midland Hotel, where your name is entered as being on that day accompanied by an Indian ayah and a child. There is a note to the effect that the child died the same night. The child is entered in the register as born on December the 2nd, 1872. I observe in the Peerage that the present baronet was born on that day. "I propose to call upon you to-morrow afternoon at about three o'clock, in the hope of obtaining an interview with you on this subject. "I remain, madam, your obedient servant, "RICHARD WOODROFFE." Now you understand why Richard Woodroffe came to town in so buoyant and jubilant a mood. He saw himself received with shame and confusion by a fallen enemy. He saw himself playing, for the first time in his life, a part requiring great dignity--that of the conqueror. He would be chivalrous towards this sinner; he would utter no reproach: to lay his proofs before her, to receive her surrender, would be enough. Richard was not a revengeful person; wrongs he forgot; injuries he forgave. At the same time, he would have been more than human if he had not contemplated, with some kind of satisfaction, the reduction of the second baronet to his true level, which would leave him with no more pride and no more superiority.