“For two days de Cartienne was virtually a maniac. Then he seemed suddenly to come to his senses, and I think we all—Elsie and I especially—dreaded his terrible, set calmness more even than his previous fury. He made no wild threats, nor did he talk to anyone of his intentions. But we all knew what they were; and when he left London, secretly and alone, we trembled, for we knew that he was going in search of your mother. He needed no help, for he was himself a born detective, and possessed in a marvellous degree the art of disguising himself.
“Every day we searched the newspapers anxiously, dreading lest we should read of the tragedy which we feared was inevitable. But we heard nothing. The weeks crept on into months and the months to years and still we heard nothing—not even from your mother.
“We advertised, made every possible form of inquiry, but in vain. Then came the news of Mr. Ravenor’s shipwreck and supposed death, and we concluded that your mother had perished with him. I accepted a foreign appointment, and only returned to England, after ten years’ absence, last week. I heard at once of Mr. Ravenor’s marvellous return to life and I wrote to him. The only reply I received was a single sentence:
“‘You can tell your wife that her sister is dead. I have no more to say.’
“Only yesterday, to my amazement, I met de Cartienne again, and with him, you, who, I felt sure from the beginning, must be Alice’s son. It may seem strange to you that I should know so much and yet know no more. But it is so.”
I turned round and faced him slowly.
“Do you mean to say, then, that after her elopement my mother never once communicated with her father or sister?”
“Only in this way. She left a private message for my wife, telling her through whom to forward a letter, but not disclosing her whereabouts. Sir Arthur Montavon intercepted the message and took advantage of it to write a cruel, stern letter, forbidding her ever to appear in his presence again, or to address him or her sister; and I am sorry to say that, at his command, my wife, too, wrote in a censorious vein, hoping to make up for it by sending another letter a few days afterwards. The first letter your mother received; the second missed her. She inherited a good deal of her father’s firmness, almost severity, of disposition, and I have no doubt that the receipt of those letters would lead her to cut herself off altogether from her family.”
“Then you do not even know where she and Mr. Ravenor were married?” I asked huskily.
Lord Langerdale shook his head, and I noticed that he failed to look me in the face. I braced myself up with a great effort.