"Yes," assented Celia; "but it isn't any more wonderful and astounding than the occurrences one reads of in the newspapers almost every day."
"And there is no doubt? I mean, it is all settled; he is the Marquess?" said Miriam, still apathetically, as if no change, however revolutionary, could affect her.
"Yes, it is all settled, or will be very soon," said Celia. "The lawyers are coming down to-morrow; the evidence is quite complete." There was silence for a minute or two; then Celia, with her heart beating fast and heavily, said, in a still lower voice, "There is something else I must tell you, Lady Heyton. Mr. Clendon, the real Marquess, has—has a son."
She stopped to let this sink in, and Miriam's brows knit slightly; then she said, almost inaudibly,
"You mean that—that Heyton, my husband, is not the heir, is not Lord Heyton?"
"Yes," said Celia in a whisper. It seemed to her that Miriam drew a long breath of relief; but she made no comment and Celia went on, with still greater difficulty, "I must tell you who he is, Lady Heyton. I want to prepare you for a shock, and I don't know how to do it. You—you know him."
"I know him?" repeated Miriam, with dull surprise. "You mean I have met him. What is his name? Heyton, of course."
"That is his name, his title," said Celia; "but he has borne several names, has had a strange history. You knew him by the name of Derrick Dene."
Miriam did not start; but the pallor of her face increased, and her tear-swollen eyes fixed themselves with a kind of wan wonder and shame on Celia.
"Derrick Dene!" she echoed, faintly.