t this to Bassett
Oliver said according to your story--that he sprang from a very old
family in England, and that this is a dramatization of a romantic episode
in its annals. Now there is no other old family in England named Greyle,
and this episode is of course, the famous legend of how Prince Rupert
once sought refuge in the Keep yonder and had a love-passage with a lady
of the house. Am I right, Mr. Dennie?"

"Quite right, ma'am, quite correct," replied the old actor. "It is
so--you have guessed correctly!"

"Very well, then--the Marston Greyle who wrote this, and those letters,
and who met Bassett Oliver was without doubt the son of Marcus Greyle,
who went to America many years ago. He was the same Marston Greyle, who,
his father being dead, of course succeeded his uncle, Stephen John
Greyle--that seems an absolute certainty. And in that case," continued
Mrs. Greyle, looking earnestly from one to the other, "in that case--who
is the man now at Scarhaven Keep?"

A dead silence fell on the little room. Audrey started and flushed at her
mother's eager, pregnant question; Mr. Dennie sat up very erect and took
a pinch of snuff from his old-fashioned box. Copplestone pushed his chair
away from the table and began to walk about. And Mrs. Greyle continued to
look from one face to the other as if demanding a reply to her question.

"Mother!" said Audrey in a low voice. "You aren't suggesting--"

"Ahem!" interrupted Mr. Dennie. "A moment, my dear. There is nothing, I
believe," he continued, waxing a little oracular, "nothing like plain
speech. We are all friends--we have a common cause--justice! It may be
that justice demands our best endeavours not only as regards our deceased
friend, Bassett Oliver, but in the interests of--this young lady. So--"

"I wish you wouldn't, Mr. Dennie!" exclaimed Audrey. "I don't like this
at all. Please don't!"

She turned, almost instinctively, to seek Copplestone's aid in repressing
the old man. But Copplestone was standing by the window, staring moodily
at the wind-swept quay beyond the garden, and Mr. Dennie waved his
snuff-box and went on.

"An old man's privilege!" he said. "In your interests, my dear. Allow
me." He turned again to Mrs. Greyle. "In plain words, ma'am, you are
wondering if the present holder of the estates is really what he claims
to be. Plain English, eh?"

"I am!" answered Mrs. Greyle with a distinct ring of challenge and
defiance. "And now that it comes to the