“I trust you will pardon the liberty I have taken—indulging myself in a little ramble through your grounds. You have a pretty place. I was on my way to call at the Hall, and turned into a side path, not expecting to be so fortunate as to find you here.”
A bow responded.
“Will you allow me to give you my card, as I have not been able to send it through a servant. My name is Brooke—Hubert Brooke—” as George Rutherford received the card, only to lay it aside without a glance. His companion counted him absent, and repeated, “Hubert Brooke—a name not entirely strange to you. Thanks; I shall be glad to sit down. I have walked some distance, and I am growing old. No, not your chair. This will do. I believe you have been ill lately.”
George resumed his own seat mechanically. A troubled look had come into his face, and he seemed to be trying to recall something.
“Hubert Brooke!” he murmured. “Brooke—Brooke!”
“Joan Brooke is the name of the young lady you have been so good as to adopt. I believe she passes often as Miss Rutherford.”
George was gazing distressfully still, as if unable to grasp the idea. “Joan,” he said gently. “Yes. I beg your pardon. I do not quite understand.”
“You remember doubtless the name of Hubert Brooke,” said the old gentleman shortly.
George leant back with a wearied air, seeming to give up the struggle for comprehension. “I think it would be better for you to see my wife, or Joan,” he said. “No; Joan is out;” and he hesitated. “Perhaps you could kindly call another day. I am not allowed yet to enter into business matters!”
Mr. Brooke was not a man easily turned aside from his purpose. “No business details are involved—at this moment,” he said. “There is not much to tell, Mr. Rutherford. Your adopted child, Joan Brooke, is my granddaughter. Her father was my only son—Hubert Brooke.”