“Is she alive?”
I shook my head.
“She died about nine months ago.”
“And Morton is your name? May I ask who your father was?”
“Certainly. He was a farmer in Leicestershire.”
“A farmer?” Lord Langerdale looked surprised and I fancied a little disappointed. “Was he your mother’s first husband?”
I was about to answer in the affirmative, but remembered that I had no certain knowledge, so I corrected myself.
“You may think it strange, Lord Langerdale,” I said, “but I know nothing of my mother’s antecedents, nor of her family. From my earliest recollection she never mentioned her past, nor permitted others to do so. There was some mystery connected with it, I am sure; but what it was I have no clue.
“I could not help observing, as everyone else did, that she was far above my father from a social point of view, for she was an educated lady and he was only a small tenant farmer. Throughout all her life she was reticent, and her last act before she died was a paradox. She left me to the guardianship of the man whom she had always before seemed to dread and fear.”
“What is his name?”