"I did not know," went on the Marquess in a lower voice, and with obvious difficulty, "that, when I left my wife, she was about to become a mother. I did not know that a child was born to me—a son. If I had known—well, the whole course of my life would have been altered from that moment. I should have gone back to her, should have claimed my child; perhaps it is because she knew that I should have done so that she concealed the fact from me. Be that as it may, I was kept in ignorance until this moment; and even now, she does not tell me, but—her son."
He raised his eyes to Derrick with something in them that made Derrick's heart leap, the tears spring to his eyes.
"Yes; you are my son," said Mr. Clendon, and he held out his hand.
Derrick, moving as if in a dream, took the thin hand and grasped it in both of his.
"Oh, is it true?" was all he could say, huskily.
"It is quite true," said Mr. Clendon. "The certificates are enclosed; there is a minute account of the way in which your mother placed you in the charge of these people; there are even periodical receipts for the sums she paid for your maintenance. As to your identity——"
"No doubts about that," murmured Mr. Jacobs, cheerfully. "Proved up to the hilt. Marquess, I congratulate you—and you, too, Lord Heyton."
Now, indeed, Derrick started.
"Do you mean that I——?" he stammered, overwhelmed by the significance of the title by which Mr. Jacobs had addressed him.
Mr. Jacobs nodded, as cheerfully as before. "Quite so," he said. "Your father being the Marquess of Sutcombe, you are, of course, Lord Heyton."