Nina Darling nodded. She had always supposed that Mr. Widdicombe knew, since he had all the Kneedrocks' secrets; but she had never been quite sure. Then, in spite of herself, she smiled.
"We were like a certain class of suburban villas," she said—"semi-detached."
The old gentleman did not smile. "Quite so," he agreed.
"I think I begin to understand," she continued. "He met Miss Scripps in Tahiti, when he had no thought of ever returning to England. She fancied that he meant to marry her, and when he came away—left her forlorn—she induced old David Phipps to accompany her and follow after. Isn't that it?"
But there was no answering gleam of affirmation in the pale eyes of the legal luminary. "No," he answered, "not exactly. You forget, if you ever have known, that the late viscount while in that far country assumed the name of Scripps himself."
"Oh, of course," she rejoined; "I know that. I've always wondered why he chose such a horrid name."
"He never knew why himself."
"Never knew why?"
"No. You see, when he recovered his memory after the incident at Spion Kop he found himself at Cape Town in a shipping office, and he was known there as Henry Scripps. For reasons best known to himself he retained it."
Nina looked confused. All those questions and conjectural answers that had sprung into her mind on the finding of the letter in the St. James's Square suite came flooding back.