‘We have met before,’ answered Treverton, who had never taken his eyes from the other man’s face. ‘We last met under very painful circumstances. It is a surprise to find a relation of yours in Mr.----’ ‘Mansfield,’ interrupted Desrolles. ‘I have changed the name of Malcolm for Mansfield--a name in my mother’s family--for Laura’s sake. It might be disadvantageous for her to own kindred with a man whom the world has played football with for the last ten years.’ Desrolles had grown ashy pale since the entrance of Laura’s husband, and the hand with which he poured out his third glass of brandy shook like a leaf. ‘Highly considerate on your part, Mr. Mansfield,’ replied John Treverton. ‘May I ask for what reason you have favoured my wife with this late visit?’ ‘The usual motive that brings a poor relation to a rich man’s house. I want money, and Laura can afford to give it. Why beat about the bush?’ ‘Why indeed! Plain dealing will be best in this case. I think, as it is a simple matter of business, you had better let me arrange it with you. Laura, will you leave your kinsman’s claims for me to settle? You may trust me to take a liberal view of his position.’ ‘I will trust you, dearest, now and always,’ answered his wife, giving him her hand, and then she went to Desrolles, and offered him the same frank hand, looking at him with tender earnestness. ‘Good night,’ she said, ‘and good-bye. I beg you to trust my husband, as I trust him. Believe me, it will be the best for all of us. He will be as ready to recognise your claim as I am, if you will only confide in him. If I have trusted him with my life, cannot you trust him with your secret?’ ‘Good night,’ said Desrolles curtly. ‘I haven’t got over my astonishment yet.’ ‘At what?’ ‘At finding you married.’ ‘Good night,’ she said again, on the threshold of the door, and then she came back to tell her husband not to fatigue or excite himself. ‘I can only give you a quarter of an hour,’ she said to Desrolles. ‘Pray remember that my husband is an invalid, and ought to be in bed.’ ‘Go to your school children, dearest,’ said Treverton, smiling at her anxiety. ‘I shall be careful.’ The door closed behind Laura, and the two men--fellow-lodgers a year ago in Cibber Street--stood face to face with each other. ‘So you are John Treverton?’ said Desrolles, wiping his lips with that tremulous hand of his, and looking with a hungry eye at the half-empty decanter, looking anywhere rather than straight into the eyes of his fellow-man. ‘And you claim relationship with my wife?’ ‘Nearer, perhaps, than you would care to hear; so near that I have some right to know how you, Jack Chicot, came to be her husband--how it was that you married her a year ago, at which period the lovely and accomplished Madame Chicot, whom I had the honour to know, was still living? Either that charming woman was not your wife, or your marriage with Laura Malcolm is invalid.’