“The woman’s name was Isabel Purvis; she is the heroine of my story.”
The magistrate uttered an exclamation of surprise and horror.
“Doubtless the name may be familiar to you, sir,” said his companion. “Well, as I have already observed, she went by the name of Isabel Purvis, but her real name was Kensett.”
“It is false,” cried the magistrate, “utterly false. She had no legal right to the name of Kensett.”
“I don’t wish to contradict a gentleman in your position,” returned Sutherland, “but I think you will find what I have just said is true in substance, and, in fact, her real name was Kensett.”
“I am lost!” cried the magistrate.
“Lost in wonder, doubtless, but not yet lost, I trust, in the extensive sense usually applied to that word. But this is digression. To continue: It was a cheerless night, the wind was beginning to rise, and moaned among the trees of the forest by which your house is so gracefully encircled, the rain dashed in torrents against the windows as if the very elements—but you can imagine the rest.”
“I can do nothing of the sort, sir. I don’t know to what you would allude.”
“Well, Mr. Kensett, I assure you that I have every reason for believing that what I am about to tell you is correct in every particular. The woman placed her child on the doorstep of a house, and then fled precipitately; but she did not escape—she was arrested by the village constable upon the charge of attempting to murder her offspring. You were, on that night, seated in this room, as you are now—on one hand a book of the law to assist your memory—on the other hand a Bible—before you a felon. You were alone with this criminal, as you are alone with me now, and you were in the power of this criminal, as you are now in mine.”
“In your power?”