Harcourt perceived his change of mood, and said, with a sigh:
“I feel and know in what a dark aspect I must appear to you, Mr. Merritt, but wait only for a few days longer and you will know and understand all.”
“Mystery is humbug, sir,” said the lawyer roughly.
“It is more than that, in some cases, Mr. Merritt—it is guilt, remorse and shame,” said the young man, in a tone of such deep despair that the old lawyer was startled. “But let that pass for the moment,” he added. “This child—does Miss Fronde know that she has been found?”
“No. I only saw her last night, when I met her by appointment, at the depot, and took her to the Wesleyan. I would not trouble her then with news that might have broken her night’s rest. For reasons that it is not necessary to go into now she thought Owlet was in proper hands, and was, in a measure, at ease on her account. If, however, I had told her that the child had been lost and found in the city of New York she would have been very much distressed, especially as she could not have then interfered; but since the child is here again, and without her agency, she may receive her; and I am inclined to think she will do so. I have not seen Miss Fronde to-day, but I have an engagement to dine with her at the Flats this evening at half-past seven.”
“Then, Mr. Merritt, as it is impossible for me to approach Miss Fronde, and be the happy medium of restoring the lost one, will it be too much for me to ask of you to do this gracious service to the orphan and her benefactress?” Harcourt pleaded.
“Of course I will take the child to Miss Fronde. Where is she?” inquired the lawyer, looking around as if he expected to find her perched upon some chair.
“In the front room. I will go and bring her in, if you will permit me.”
“Certainly. Go, and bring her.”
Harcourt passed into the front room, where he found the child yawning in a deep leather armchair, in which her little figure was nearly lost.