“Only think, sir, just as I was saying to myself, ‘I know character—I never was taken in,’ down comes a smart fellow—the man’s own son—and tells me—or rather he suffers a lady who comes with him to tell me—that this charming old gentleman of high sense of honour was a returned convict—been transported for robbing his employer.”
Pale, breathless, Darrell listened, not unheeding now. “What was the name of—of—”
“The convict? He called himself Chapman, but the son’s name was Losely—Jasper.”
“Ah!” faltered Darrell, recoiling. “And you spoke of a little girl?”
“Jasper Losely’s daughter; he came after her with a magistrate’s warrant. The old miscreant had carried her off,—to teach her his own swindling ways, I suppose.”
“Luckily she was then in my charge. I gave her back to her father, and the very respectable-looking lady he brought with him. Some relation, I presume.”
“What was her name, do you remember?”
“Crane.”
“Crane!—Crane!” muttered Darrell, as if trying in vain to tax his memory with that name. “So he said the child was his daughter—are you sure?”
“Oh, of course he said so, and the lady too. But can you be acquainted with their, sir?”