found him a harmless old cove,
after all, with many of his fangs extracted. You know, I am the son of
his half-brother, who was many years his junior. I fancy the two never
agreed very well, and when I wrote, proposing that I should visit
Crompton House, I was surprised at the cordial reply, bidding me pack up
my traps and come at once. I packed up and came, and, if I know myself,
I shall stay. I am the only near relative he has in the world. He has a
large estate to dispose of, was never married, and, of course, has no
children, unless--

"There must everlastingly be an _unless_, or a _but_ somewhere, and here
it is--a big one in the shape of a woman--a lovely woman, too, if she is
nearer forty than twenty. Don't you remember I once told you of a girl
whom my uncle brought home from the South, and who ran off with her
music teacher, an Italian. Well, she is here--a wreck physically and
mentally in one sense; not exactly insane, but with memory so impaired
that she can tell nothing of her past, or perhaps she does not wish to.
She always says, when questioned about it, 'I don't remember, and it
makes my head ache to try.'

"It seems her first husband, Candida, took her abroad and gave her every
advantage in music, both in Paris and Italy. When he died she married
Homer Smith, an American, who was associated with him in some way. After
his return to America he got up what was known as the 'Homer Troupe.' He
dropped his last name, thinking the _Smith_ Troupe would not sound as
well as Homer. His wife was the drawing card. She had a wonderful voice
as a girl, they say, with a peculiarly pathetic tone in it, like what
you hear in negro concerts, and it was this and her beauty which took
with the people. She hated the business, but was compelled to sing by
her husband, who, I fancy, was a tyrant and a brute. They starred it in
the far West mostly, until her health and mind gave way, and she went
raving mad on the stage, I believe. He put her in a private asylum in
San Francisco. How long she was there I don't know, and she don't know.
She was always a little queer, they say, and people predicted she would
be crazy some time. Her husband died suddenly in Santa Barbara. Just
before he died he tried to say something, but could only manage to give
his physician the Colonel's address, and say, 'Tell him where my wife
is.'

"Off started the Colonel, lame, and gouty, and rheumatic as he is, and
brought her home, and has set her