“We have come to ask you for another song, Kate,” said Miss Falconer, languidly. “Dereham, here, is quite enchanted with your voice.”
“He will not be enchanted any more to-night, then,” answered Kathleen Weir; “this man and I,” and she nodded at Webster as she spoke, “have been talking of old times, and singing would seem frivolous after our conversation.”
“Ah! I did not know you knew Mr. Webster long ago.” And Miss Falconer rested for a moment her dreamy eyes on Webster’s dark face.
“I knew him in some spirit-land, I believe,” said Kathleen, with a light laugh. “I really feel as if I had known you somewhere else, do you know, Mr. Webster. Where can it have been.”
“In some spirit-land, perhaps, as you say,” answered Webster, with a smile. “But I must go now, and may I really take this photograph with me? I will return it the day after to-morrow.”
“Take it by all means, and come to supper the day after to-morrow. You may have something to tell me,” she added, significantly.
“I may; I can not tell. Good-night, Miss Weir.”
He shook hands with the others after this, and went away carrying the photograph with him. He was now almost convinced that the John Temple who had married May Churchill was the same John Temple who had married Kathleen Weir. If this were so May was not his wife, and Kathleen was! Webster’s dark face flushed, and his heart beat faster as he thought of it. But suddenly he remembered May’s words about faithfulness in love. Would she change even if she knew the man she had married to be completely unworthy? She might and she might not, and greatly disturbed in mind Ralph Webster returned to his chambers, and when he got there drew out the old photograph and examined again the somewhat faded likeness of the man he had never seen.
But the next morning brought him a letter, which more surely confirmed his suspicions. This was from Kathleen Weir herself, and the subject of it was her husband, John Temple.
“Dear Mr. Webster,” she wrote, “you had scarcely gone to-night, when I heard something that has surprised me greatly. It seems that Linda Falconer, in the pleasant way that we all talk of our friends’ sins or sorrows, had been telling Lord Dereham, when I was singing to you, all about my unfortunate marriage, of which he had never heard. When she mentioned John Temple’s name Dereham pricked up his ears. ‘Is that the man,’ he said, ‘who not long ago came into a fortune by his young cousin being killed at football?’ Now if this is my John Temple who has come into a fortune, it is a very plain fact that he should increase my allowance to something more respectable than a paltry three hundred a year. And I want you to find out this for me. I receive my income from him through a certain Mr. Harrison, a solicitor, and I inclose Mr. Harrison’s address. Will you go to him and make inquiries? I will think it most awfully good of you if you will, and I shall be eternally grateful to you if I were not so already! I am treating you as a friend, for I feel somehow that you are one, and the thought is very pleasant to me. Write after you have seen Harrison, and come the day after to-morrow to supper.