“Here is a remarkable missive left for me yesterday—‘If the Rev. Underwood wishes to hear of something to his advantage, he should communicate with Mr. O’L., care of Mr. John Bast, van proprietor, Whitechapel.’ An impostor?” said he.
“I am afraid not,” said Lance. “Clement, I fear there is no doubt that she is that singing Hungarian woman who was the ruin of Edgar’s life.”
“Gerald’s mother!” exclaimed Geraldine.
“Even so.”
“But she is gone! She gave up all rights. She can’t claim anything. Has she worried him?”
“Yes, poor boy! She has declared that she had actually a living husband at the time she married our poor Edgar.”
Of course both broke out into exclamations that it was impossible, and Lance had to tell them of his interview with the woman at Gerald’s entreaty. They were neither of them so overcome by the disclosure as he had feared during his long delay.
“I believe it is only an attempt at extortion,” said Clement.
“Very cruel,” said Geraldine. “How—how did my poor boy bear it all this time?”
“He was very much knocked down at first, quite overwhelmed, but less by the loss than by the shame, and the imputation on his father.”