“It was a secret,” said Stuart; “but I have the whole history in a letter which he confided to my care. Now comes the strange part of the story. This daughter was thought to be in Australia, was even traced to that part of the world, when suddenly, as I am about to start to find her, by one of those extraordinary turns of fate, I come face to face with the cousin I seek—here—in your house!”
Lord Court stood still and looked at Stuart earnestly.
“In my house!” he echoed, slowly, as if doubting his ears. “Who is it?”
“Your wife.”
“My wife? Margery? You are jesting!”
“Jesting!” repeated Stuart, grimly. “I was never so serious in all my life! Sir Douglas Gerant’s lost daughter bore the name of Margery Daw. She was placed in a home in Hurstley—my native village. Evidence was forthcoming that she had gone to Australia with Reuben Morris, the husband of the woman she had called mother. I knew her well; and last night, when I came face to face with her, I was overwhelmed by the discovery that Margery Daw and the Countess of Court were one and the same person.”
Lord Court passed his hand across his brow.
“I cannot think clearly yet,” he said, slowly; “the news is rather sudden.” He paused for a little. “There is no mistake—you are sure?”
“I am sure,” answered Stuart, emphatically.
The earl was silent for a minute, then his face cleared and brightened. He put out his hand to Stuart, who grasped it silently.