--and was her mother's bridesmaid.... I should say her aunt's."

"Who was her mother?"

"I have understood it was a twin sister."

"Who was her father?"

Mr. Norbury hesitated. "If your lordship would excuse, I would prefer
not to say. The story came to me through two persons. My own informant
had it from Thrale. But it's near twenty years ago, and I could not
charge my memory, to a certainty."

"Something you don't like to tell?"

"Not except I could speak to a certainty." Mr. Norbury, evidently
embarrassed, wavered respectfully.

"Was there a convict in it, certain or uncertain?"

"There was, my lord. Certain, I fear. But I am uncertain about his name.
Peverell, or Deverell."

"What was he convicted of? What offence?"

"I rather think it was forgery, my lord, but I may be wrong about that.
The story said his wife followed him to Van Diemen's Land, and died
there?"

"That was Thrale's story?"

"Thrale's story."

"He must have known."

"Oh, he knew!"

"What is old Mrs. Marrable's Christian name?"

"I believe she was always called Phoebe. Her first married name was a
very unusual one, Cropredy."

"And Widow Thrale's?"

"Ruth--Keziah Solmes calls her, I think."

His lordship made no reply; and, indeed, said never a word until he
released Mr. Norbury in his dressing-room ten minutes later, being then
as it were wound up for a good night's rest, and safe to go till
morning. Even then the current of serious thought into which he seemed
to have plunged seemed too engrossing to allow of his making a start. He
remained sitting in the easy-chair before the fire, with intently
knitted brows and a gaze divided between the vigorous flare to which Mr.
Norbury's final benediction had incited it, and the packet of letters
Gwen had given him, which he had placed on the table beside him. Behind
him was what Gwen had spoken of as his big ebony cabinet. If a ghost
that could not speak was then and there haunting that chamber, its
tongue must have itched to remind his lordship what a satisfaction it
would be to a disembodied bystander to get a peep into the cinquecento
recesses of that complicated storehouse of ancient documents, which was
never opened in the presence of anyone but its owner.

Gradually Gwen's packet absorbed more than its fair share of the Earl's
attention; finally, seemed to engross it completely. He ended by cutting
the outer string, taking the contents out, and placing them before him
on the