Closs had almost been prepared for this, and did not allow himself to be taken by surprise.
"You have got half the name right at any rate," he said, quietly; "Hepworth Closs, and you have it complete. You never could have heard it in full, when you lived in New York, I fancy."
"Closs, Closs? No, I never heard that name given to you; but it once belonged to Lady Hope, I remember."
"And of course, naturally belongs to her brother, my good girl," said Closs, with a quiet smile.
"Her brother? Whose brother? Not the Lady that was—"
The girl broke off, and her voice died in a low whisper.
"No, no!" broke in the man, with sudden impatience; "that was a terrible thing, which you and I will be all the happier in forgetting. The poor woman who did it is suffering a hard penalty, if she is not in fact dead."
"Yes, sir, yes; but how came her grandchild here? How came you there?"
"Hush!" said Hepworth, in a voice of command, that startled the woman; "who gave you authority to ask such questions? What can you know about the old woman's grandchild?"
"I know that the young lady who left you ten minutes ago was the little girl they called her grandchild. I saw the coroner holding the poor little thing up to look on the dead lady. I think that lady was her mother."