"By telling me that she was my grandmother. It appeared that her son, my father, who was a pureblooded gipsy, had been a fine singer, and left the Romany tents for the stage. He sang also at private houses in London, and in one of them he met with my mother, who was an heiress in a small way. She fell in love with the gipsy tenor, and ran off with him. They were married, and when I was born my mother died, and asked her husband to take me back to her sister; my father died also, and it was by my aunt--the old maid I spoke of--that I was brought up. Before I was six years of age my father was drowned while going to America; and as he had squandered all the money his wife brought him, I was left penniless. My aunt, who was angered by her sister's marriage, decided to tell me nothing, but gave me my father's name--Lovel is a gipsy name, you know--and left me her little money. So you see, Mr. Mexton, I am a gipsy." "I see," said Paul, rather bored. "But what has all this family history to do with the murder?" CHAPTER XX. GRAN JIMBOY. Lovel flushed angrily at the ironical tone in which his visitor made his last remark, but kept his temper in a way wonderful for so passionate a man, and replied with all calmness: "As I told you before, Mr. Mexton, a few personal details about myself are necessary to make you understand my position; otherwise you will never comprehend how Mother Jimboy consented to perjure herself for my sake at the inquest." "I beg your pardon," said Paul, feeling ashamed of his rude speech; "I should not have spoken as I did. Pray continue." "When gran had related my family history," resumed Lovel, quietly, "she told me that she had come to Barnstead specially to watch over me. She knew that I was not rich, and having discovered--how, I know not--that Miss Clyde was in love with me, she implored me to marry that lady. I refused." "Because of Milly?" "Yes," assented Lovel, "because of Milly; and I told gran the cause of my refusal in plain words. She was angry with what she termed my folly, and said that if I met Milly again the consequences might be fatal." "Oh! she said that, did she?" "Yes; but only to insist upon her foolish prophecy earlier in the day. As I told you, she declared that Milly would meet with a violent death, and she urged that such death might take place at our next meeting, so as to induce me not to see the girl again. In a word, Mexton, the artful old woman was trying to frighten me with false fire; and I replied to her warning by telling her that I was to meet Milly the next evening in the Winding Lane. Mother Jimboy warned me once more that evil might come of it----" "Might come, or would come?" questioned Paul.