“Not so. The storm kept me at the Cliffs, but did not bring me here. I was a guest at Rushmore, and at the supper table chanced to hear, in the gossip of the ladies, the story of Lilith Wyvil’s adoption and marriage. To me it was a revelation. I determined to see her. I did so, and was storm-bound for a week at the Cliffs.”
“Ah!”
“That trunk, Mr. Hereward, is at your disposal. All necessary information can be found within it. Seek and know and prove it, all for yourself! When you have done so, you may deliver me over to the British authorities as a fugitive from justice and send me back to England, under your favorite extradition treaty—to penal servitude for life! I care not one farthing now that Lilith is gone!”
“Man! Man! in Heaven’s name, who and what are you?” demanded Hereward, pale and shaking with emotion.
“I am known to the British police authorities as John Weston, the mail robber; to the keepers of Portland prison, Z. 789; to the play-going public as Mr. Alfred Ancillon, tragedian, comedian, tenor and athlete; in diplomatic circles in Washington as Señor Zuniga, nephew of the P—— Minister; but to Lilith I was known by another name, and in a sweeter relation. There! I have said and done all for which I came here. I am going now. Good-bye! I shall be at the Antler’s in Frosthill all this week, waiting your pleasure;” and the visitor put on his hat and walked off by the way through which he had come.
He had seen Mr. Hereward drop back in his chair; but neither knew nor, if he had known, would have cared that the invalid had fallen into a deep swoon.
In this condition Dr. Kerr found him a few minutes later.
After using prompt means for his recovery, and seeing him open his eyes and breathe again, the doctor made him swallow a cordial, and then asked him what had caused his swoon.
“Weakness, I suppose,” evasively answered the invalid.
The doctor took him into the cool, shady drawing-room and made him lie down on the sofa.