e that
my lord had left a son in France--I do not believe that had he done
so, I should not have known it; I do not believe that under such
circumstances, unfeeling as he was, he would have abandoned Mademoiselle
de Maligny."

"You think, then," said Rotherby, "that this man has raked up this story
to--"

"Consider what you are saying," cut in Mr. Caryll, with a flash of
scorn. "Should I have come prepared with documents against such a
happening as this?"

"Nay, but the documents might have been intended for some other purpose
had my lord lived--some purpose of extortion," suggested her ladyship.

"But consider again, madam, that I am wealthy--far wealthier than was
ever my Lord Ostermore, as my friends Collis, Stapleton and many another
can be called to prove. What need, then, had I to extort?"

"How came you by your means, being what you say you are?" she asked him.

Briefly he told her how Sir Richard Everard had cared for him, for his
mother's sake; endowed him richly upon adopting him, and since made
him heir to all his wealth, which was considerable. "And for the rest,
madam, and you, Rotherby, set doubts on one side. Your ladyship says
that had my lord had a son you must have heard of it. But my lord,
madam, never knew he had a son. Tell me--can you recall the date, the
month at least, in which my lord returned to England?"

"I can, sir. It was at the end of April of '89. What then?"

Mr. Caryll produced the certificate again. He beckoned Rotherby, and
held the paper under his eyes. "What date is there--the date of birth?"

Rotherby read: "The third of January of 1690."

Mr. Caryll folded the paper again. "That will help your ladyship to
understand how it might happen that my lord remained in ignorance of my
birth." He sighed as he replaced the case in his pocket. "I would he had
known before he died," said he, almost as if speaking to himself.

And now her ladyship lost her temper. She saw Rotherby wavering, and
it angered her; and angered, she committed a grave error. Wisdom lay in
maintaining the attitude of repudiation; it would at least have afforded
some excuse for her and Rotherby. Instead, she now recklessly flung off
that armor, and went naked down into the fray.

"A fig for't all!" she cried, and snapped her fingers. She had risen,
and she towered there, a lean and malevolent figure, her head-dress
nodding foolishly. "What does it matter that you be what you claim to
be? Is it to weigh wit