"This story has already been communicated to my attorneys," interrupted Lord Beachcombe impatiently. "How are you acquainted with it, and why do you expect it to interest me in you?" "I know it because a vast number of letters, written by this gentleman, first to his sweetheart and afterward to his wife, have fallen into my hands. They tell the whole history, with many entertaining details, and would prove racy reading in the _News_ sheet for your lordship’s friends and foes, especially the latter." The visitor winced. "No man likes his family affairs held up to ridicule," he said. "I would willingly buy the letters, if genuine." "Oh! they are genuine; also the marriage certificate, whereof one of the witnesses is still living, and the certificates of the birth and baptism of the son, now twenty-eight years old. I believe your lordship is twenty-six?" "And why has this matter been allowed to sleep for thirty years?" "Because Mrs. Vincent—as she temporarily allowed herself to be called—although clever enough to find out that her stage-player lover was really a lieutenant of the King’s Guards, masquerading under a false name, was unable to trace him when he disappeared, a year after their marriage, and never knew that in consequence of several deaths, he had become Lord Beachcombe, of whom she probably never heard, and certainly never connected with Lieutenant Gregory de Cliffe. The last of this series of documents is the certificate of the death of the deserted wife, when her son was about five years old, to whom she bequeathed only her wedding-ring and a casket, which was to be opened when he came to man’s estate." Lord Beachcombe’s sallow face crimsoned with such a rush of blood, that his eyes were suffused, and he seemed in danger of suffocating. "Five years," he gasped. "Scoundrel, do you know what you are saying?" Robin bent his head, without speaking. "Where are these forgeries? These—these—" Beachcombe stopped, apparently unable to utter another word. "As I told you before, they are quite safe," said Robin quietly. "But an hour after my death, they will be in the hands of the person whom they most concern." "And do you—does this impostor imagine that he can oust a peer of the realm with a few old letters and musty documents, forsooth?" cried the earl, recovering himself a little. "We nobles hang together, Sir Highwayman, and are chary of disturbing one of our order for a trifle." "I do not know whether he can oust you, Lord Beachcombe," said Robin, looking him steadily in the eye, "but he can prove you a bastard." Beachcombe sprang to his feet, with hand on sword, as though he would have drawn it on the defenseless prisoner, and stood, breathing heavily, unable to utter a word.