Let Mr. Ellin be as enigmatical as he would, he never puzzled Miss Wilcox. She never saw enigma in the man. Some people feared, because they did not understand, him; to her it had not yet occurred to begin to spell his nature or analyze his character. If she had an impression about him, it was, that he was an idle but obliging man, not aggressive, of few words, but often convenient. Whether he were clever and deep, or deficient and shallow, close or open, odd or ordinary, she saw no practical end to be answered by inquiry, and therefore did not inquire. “Why had he done nothing?” she now asked. “Chiefly because there was nothing to do.” “Then he could give her no information?” “Not much: only this, indeed—Conway Fitzgibbon was a man of straw; May Park a house of cards. There was no vestige of such man or mansion in Midland County, or in any other shire in England. Tradition herself had nothing to say about either the name or the place. The Oracle of old deeds and registers, when consulted, had not responded. “Who can he be, then, that came here, and who is this child?” “That’s just what I can’t tell you:—an incapacity which makes me say I have done nothing.” “And how am I to get paid?” “Can’t tell you that either.” “A quarter’s board and education owing, and masters’ terms besides,” pursued Miss Wilcox. “How infamous! I can’t afford the loss.” “And if we were only in the good old times,” said Mr. Ellin, “where we ought to be, you might just send Miss Matilda out to the plantations in Virginia, sell her for what she is worth, and pay yourself.” “Matilda, indeed, and Fitzgibbon! A little impostor! I wonder what her real name is?” “Betty Hodge? Poll Smith? Hannah Jones?” suggested Mr. Ellin. “Now,” cried Miss Wilcox, “give me credit for sagacity! It’s very odd, but try as I would—and I made every effort—I never could really like that child. She has had every indulgence in this house; and I am sure I made great sacrifice of feeling to principle in showing her much attention; for I could not make any one believe the degree of antipathy I have all along felt towards her.” “Yes. I can believe it. I saw it.” “Did you? Well—it proves that my discernment is rarely at fault. Her game is up now, however; and time it was. I have said nothing to her yet; but now—” “Have her in whilst I am here,” said Mr. Ellin. “Has she known of this business? Is she in the secret? Is she herself an accomplice, or a mere tool? Have her in.” Miss Wilcox rang the bell, demanded Matilda Fitzgibbon, and the false heiress soon appeared. She came in her ringlets, her sash, and her furbelowed dress adornments—alas! no longer acceptable. “Stand there!” said Miss Wilcox, sternly, checking her as she approached the hearth. “Stand there on the farther side of the table. I have a few questions to put to you, and your business will be to answer them. And mind—let us have the truth. _We will not endure lies._”