George returned to town with the confession of Mrs. Jersey in his pocket. On arriving at the Liverpool Street Station he wrote a note to Kowlaski telling him of Lola's plight, and advising him to engage counsel for her defense. He added that he would come around the next day to see Kowlaski and discuss what could be done toward extricating Lola from the mess she had involved herself in. Having thus done what he could, Brendon took the underground railway to Kensington, and alighted at the High Street Station. In another half-hour he was in his rooms. After making a good meal, for he felt the need of food to sustain him, he ordered coffee, and sat down to read the manuscript of Mrs. Jersey. The coffee was brought, George lighted his pipe, and having poked the fire into a blaze, made himself comfortable. The confession of the wretched woman who had come to so tragic an end, was written on several sheets of foolscap loosely pinned together. Her caligraphy was vile, and George had great difficulty in making out some of the words. Also the English was not faultless, but good grammar and fine writing were scarcely to be expected from a woman in the position of Eliza Stokes. But she wrote in a most cold-blooded way, and seemingly exulting in her wickedness. All through her confession ran a venomous strain of deadly hatred toward George's mother, and indeed against any woman who paid attention to Vane. Jenny Howard was not spared, and the woman Velez, "who kept an oil-shop," sneered Mrs. Jersey, was mentioned. When Brendon discovered that Mrs. Jersey had Italian blood in her veins he saw perfectly well whence she got her savage nature and undisciplined affections. She was like a wild beast let loose among more civilized animals, and the wonder was that with such a nature she had not committed more crimes than those she confessed to. The woman was a dangerous creature, and Brendon when he laid down the manuscript thought it just as well that she had been removed even by the violent means which Providence permitted. "My parents were of humble station," began Mrs. Jersey, abruptly. "I believe my mother was a lady's maid. She married my supposed father, who was a butler. I say 'my supposed father' as I have reason to believe that I was the daughter of a certain Italian count who had loved and betrayed my mother. In her moments of rage my mother would taunt my supposed father with this, but when calm she always denied that there was any truth. When I grew old enough to understand she rebuked me for asking about the matter. 'You are my daughter,' she said abruptly, 'and the daughter of Samuel Stokes, who is the biggest fool and the greatest craven I know.'