It was Mr. Clendon--we
still call him that; it is so difficult to remember that he is the
Marquess--and I lived in the same building; we called it 'The Jail'; it
was so prison-like." Her voice grew dreamy, as she spoke. "He played the
violin in the orchestra of a theatre; I used to hear him practising; the
music floated up to my room; how long ago it seems! It was he who
persuaded Lord Sutcombe to engage me as librarian, here at the Hall."

"It sounds like a novel," commented Miriam, absently.

"Yes," assented Celia; "but it isn't any more wonderful and astounding
than the occurrences one reads of in the newspapers almost every day."

"And there is no doubt? I mean, it is all settled; he _is_ the
Marquess?" said Miriam, still apathetically, as if no change, however
revolutionary, could affect her.

"Yes, it is all settled, or will be very soon," said Celia. "The lawyers
are coming down to-morrow; the evidence is quite complete." There was
silence for a minute or two; then Celia, with her heart beating fast and
heavily, said, in a still lower voice, "There is something else I must
tell you, Lady Heyton. Mr. Clendon, the real Marquess, has--has a son."

She stopped to let this sink in, and Miriam's brows knit slightly; then
she said, almost inaudibly,

"You mean that--that Heyton, my husband, is not the heir, is not Lord
Heyton?"

"Yes," said Celia in a whisper. It seemed to her that Miriam drew a long
breath of relief; but she made no comment and Celia went on, with still
greater difficulty, "I must tell you who he is, Lady Heyton. I want to
prepare you for a shock, and I don't know how to do it. You--you know
him."

"I know him?" repeated Miriam, with dull surprise. "You mean I have met
him. What is his name? Heyton, of course."

"That is his name, his title," said Celia; "but he has borne several
names, has had a strange history. You knew him by the name of Derrick
Dene."

Miriam did not start; but the pallor of her face increased, and her
tear-swollen eyes fixed themselves with a kind of wan wonder and shame
on Celia.

"Derrick Dene!" she echoed, faintly.

"Yes," murmured Celia; and, as briefly and gently as she could, she told
Miriam of Derrick's recent experiences. Miriam's hands went up to her
face; but they dropped into her lap again and she looked before her and
said, in a stricken voice,

"I see you know everything. Yes, it was Heyton, my husband, who forged
the cheque; I know it now: he is capa