“Mr. Ravenor, of Ravenor Castle. We were tenants of his.”
“My God!”
Lord Langerdale’s whole appearance was that of a man strongly agitated. He turned his head away for a moment, and the long, white fingers which supported it were shaking visibly.
I, too, was moved, for it seemed as though the time were come at last when something of my mother’s history would be made known to me. But he seemed in no hurry to speak again. It was I who had to remind him of my presence.
“Lord Langerdale,” I cried, my voice, despite all my efforts, trembling with eagerness, “you know who my mother was? You can tell me her history?”
He turned round slowly.
“One more question,” he said. “Are you sure that you were born at Ravenor?”
“I have never heard otherwise,” I told him. “But when I asked my mother once at which church I was christened, she could not tell me and forbade me to ask again.”
Lord Langerdale looked puzzled for a moment, and then asked me my age, which I told him.
“Do you remember the time when news came of Mr. Ravenor, after he had been supposed to have been dead for so long?”