“How can I thank you, Mr. Warden?” exclaimed Hardcastle earnestly, springing forward, and clasping Mr. Warden’s hand, “how can I ever thank you for this proof of your confidence in me? For weeks past as I have thought and thought over this matter, like a man in a dream almost, my thoughts have ever led me back to you, as holding in your hands the solution of the mystery. I feel nearer the truth to-night than I have ever felt before. One ray of light breaks through the darkness, and we will follow where it leads. Mr. Warden, will you leave your home here for a time—it is dreary enough, Heaven knows—and with me visit the scenes of your first love and sorrow? Do you feel equal to it? Who knows but what the truth may lie hidden somewhere there. I cannot explain to you the workings of my own mind just now; I must try to think the matter out. At present I can only see Isola’s hatred of you, and Amy’s strong resemblance to her dead mother in impetuosity and vehemence of character. But there are other lights and shadows in the picture which must fall into their own place before it can be complete.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Warden, sadly, “Amy was a pale likeness (if I may use the expression) of her mother in mind and body. She resembled her in form and outline, so to speak, but lacked the full, brilliant colouring which made her mother so dangerously fascinating. Strange to say, the likeness was never so apparent to me as when she was lying cold and lifeless in her coffin; then I felt tempted to ask myself, is this Amy, or is it her mother?”
“And I, too,” said Lord Hardcastle, quietly, “saw a look in Amy’s face then I had never seen before. Mr. Warden, I have now but one object in life, to rescue Amy dead, as I would have rescued her living, from scorn or dishonour. I want to write the name she has a right to bear, on her now nameless tomb. I want to be able to hold up the picture of the girl I love so truly, in all her innocence, and purity, and beauty, and to say to all the world, ‘this is the one I have loved in life, whom I love in death, and whom I shall love after death, through eternity!’”
Mr. Warden looked up at the flushed, earnest face of the speaker, then he said very quietly—
“Lord Hardcastle, I thought I knew you intimately; I find I have never really known you until to-day. Yes, I will go with you to Le Puy or anywhere else you may choose. I feel equal to it, and after all, for an old man like me it doesn’t much matter in what corner of the world he may lay his bones!”
CHAPTER X.
BEFORE starting for France, Lord Hardcastle received two letters. The first, from Detective Hill, ran thus:—
“SIR,—
“It is now so long since I have received any orders from Mr. Warden, that I venture to write to you, fearing he may be ill, and knowing you have his entire confidence in the matter on which I am engaged.