“I want you,” he went on, “to carry your mind back to that letter, written by you nearly twenty years ago, in which you told me that our child was dead, that you had come to the conclusion you and I would be happier apart, and that you were on the eve of returning to your friends in Italy. You have not forgotten the letter of which I speak?” “I have not forgotten it.” “After you had left Barrytown and started on your journey, what happened to you? Did you go direct to New York and at once take ship there?” “I went direct to New York, but a few hours before the vessel sailed by which I had booked my passage I was seized with a fever and conveyed to a hospital, where I lay for weeks, part of the time out of my mind, and the other part so weak that speech was an impossibility.” “And when you came back to health and strength, it was to find that while you had been in the hospital your maid, a woman of the name of Martha Griggs, had absconded with all your belongings.” It was a bold guess on John Clare’s part, but it told. Giovanna half started to her feet and then sat down again. The mask of apathy fell from her face and a great wonder and curiosity took the place of it. “How did you discover that?” she gasped. “I have discovered more than that,” was John’s unmoved reply. “And the woman—Martha Griggs—is she still living? do you know where to find her?” demanded Giovanna with an eagerness she made no attempt to conceal. “Martha Griggs was lost overboard on the voyage between New York and London.” “Lost overboard! And my child—what became of her?” She had again risen. Voice, eyes, hands—all asked the question. On the instant a great light of gladness, the source of which Giovanna was at a loss to comprehend, flamed out of John Clare’s eyes. “So I have surprised your secret, have I?” he said, speaking very slowly. For a few seconds she stared at him with bewildered eyes; then the truth dawned on her. “Yes,” she replied, “you have surprised my secret, if that is the way you choose to put it. But the child——” “A child no longer, is alive and well, and at the present moment under her grandfather’s roof at Withington Chase.” “At Withington Chase—she! How strange! How wonderful! But I am very glad—oh yes, you may believe me when I tell you that I am very glad! For, whatever you may think, I am not all bad.” She crossed quickly to the window and stood there with her back towards him for fully three minutes. Not till she had resumed her seat did John Clare speak again. “What you wrote me about the child was a lie?” he said presently. It might be taken either as a question or an assertion. “Yes—a lie,” she replied with a little shrug. “It is as well at times to call things by their right names.” “And the certificate you sent me?” “A forgery. Five dollars was the price I paid for it.” “But what was your object, if I may ask, or what was to be gained by inducing me to believe that the child was dead?”