A bright flash overspread the beautiful features of Aveline Gatliffe.
“Who I am!” she murmured. “Indeed—indeed, sir, I have yearned to know this for very many years past.”
“I am not surprised at that, madam. Let me at once inform you that you belong to the aristocracy of this country.”
“Oh, sir, are you serious? Can this be possible?” inquired Aveline, in a state of the deepest anxiety.
“I am dealing with facts which are incontrovertible,” said the lawyer, in a more serious tone. “Listen, madam.”
Slowly, deliberately, and with singular dearness, Mr. Chicknell proceeded to make his companion acquainted with all those circumstances connected with his case, as he termed it.
He passed lightly over the elopement of Aveline’s mother with the Italian; neither did he dwell upon the painful scene in the infirmary after the accident on the line, but he gave her to understand that the articles of jewellery taken from the dead body of her parent were in the possession of Lord Ethalwood. Mr. Chicknell made the young wife acquainted with every grain of evidence, which taken altogether proved most incontestably her identity.
As Aveline listened her wonder-struck countenance lost much of its wonted colour; her lips grew white as lilies, and her eyes dilated with an expression which was something akin to terror.
He finished his narrative, the last words of which were of serious import.
A mist seemed to float before her eyes.