him that Mollett was living in that
house, that he was now at home, and also that the younger woman
present before him was the child of Mollett and of Mary Swan the
elder. That the young woman was older than Herbert Fitzgerald, and
that therefore the connection between Mollett and her mother must
have been prior to that marriage down in Dorsetshire, he was sure;
but then it might still be possible that there had been no marriage
between Mollett and Mary Swan. If he could show that they had been
man and wife when that child was born, then would his old friend Mr.
Die lose his new pupil.

"I have a letter in my pocket, Mrs. Swan, from Abraham Mollett--" Mr.
Prendergast commenced, pulling out the letter in question.

"He is nothing to me, sir," said the woman, almost in a tone of
anger. "I know nothing whatever about him."

"So I should have supposed from the respectability of your
appearance, if I may be allowed to say so."

"Nothing at all, sir; and as for that, we do try to keep ourselves
respectable. But this is a very hard world for some people to live
in. It has been very hard to me and this poor girl here."

"It is a hard world to some people, and to some honest people,
too,--which is harder still."

"We've always tried to be honest," said Mary Swan the elder.

"I am sure you have; and permit me to say, madam, that you will find
it at the last to be the best policy;--at the last, even as far as
this world is concerned. But about this letter--I can assure you that
I have never thought of identifying you with Abraham Mollett."

"His mother was dead, sir, before ever I set eyes on him or his
father; and though I tried to do my--" and then she stopped herself
suddenly. Honesty might be the best policy, but, nevertheless, was it
necessary that she should tell everything to this stranger?

"Ah, yes; Abraham's mother was dead before you were married," said
Mr. Prendergast, hunting his fox ever so craftily,--his fox whom he
knew to be lying in ambush up stairs. It was of course possible that
old Mollett should slip away out of the back door and over a wall. If
foxes did not do those sort of things they would not be worth half
the attention that is paid to them. But Mr. Prendergast was well on
the scent; all that a sportsman wants is good scent. He would rather
not have a view till the run comes to its close. "But," continued
Mr. Prendergast, "it is necessary that I should say a few words to
you about this letter