“The fact is,” said Sir Philip, “the thing was never properly investigated. Mr Fletcher was afraid that the silly trick would come to my ears—too soon. I needn’t say—since you know my wife—that I at once heard of it from her. The chance was lost. But what is to be done now? You yourself believe this story?”
“Oh yes,” said Alwyn, “I do. There was no object in deceiving me. No; I am sure Lennox had not sold the jewels, and made up the story of the old tree.”
“We cannot let it get about that the wood is full of diamonds,” said Sir Philip.
“No,” returned Alwyn with a laugh; “neither Whittaker nor myself could resist a little bird’s-nesting, but it was, of course, unwise. That was partly why I wished to make myself known first to my brother. I did not know then that part of our misfortunes.”
“Ah! poor fellow,” said Sir Philip, “he is sadly helpless. But your return will be a capital thing for him. His life must be rather solitary.”
“Yes, I fear so,” said Alwyn. “I will go back to him now, with many thanks for a most kind reception.”
“Lily,” said Sir Philip, when their guest was gone, “I believe young Cunningham told the truth and the whole truth, to-day. But I didn’t.”
“What in the world do you mean, Philip?”
“Why, only yesterday I got a letter from old Dallas, giving a wonderful account of him and his high character out there, but wanting naturally to know how Mr Cunningham’s eldest son came to be there at all. I was wondering what I could say, for it was very evident that he had a reason for asking—there’s a lady in question, I imagine—when to-day he turns up.”
“Oh, Philip, we must find the jewels!”