Lovel shook his head very decidedly. "No, my friend," he said, gravely. "Mother Jimboy did not write those letters, for a reason which you shall hear. She would do nothing to injure me; but, on the contrary, she would protect me as the apple of her eye. For my sake she told a lie at the inquest, so that I should not be suspected of a crime which I did not commit."
"She must have strong reason for this guardianship," said Mexton, surprised.
"A strong one," assented Lovel, nodding. "The reason of kinship, Mr. Mexton." He paused to give effect to his words. "That old gipsy is my grandmother."
"Your grandmother!" echoed Paul, curiously. "Are you, then, a gipsy?"
"On my father's side I am--half a Romany, half a Gorgio; but my looks are of the gipsy race. Can you not see for yourself?" he said, turning his face to the light.
It was as he stated, for on looking at him keenly Paul beheld unmistakable traces of Romany blood--the oval face, swart and Oriental, the thin nose, the full red lips, and above all the peaked eyes, with the glazed look which reveals the true gipsy. Lovel looked like an Arab astray in the West; and would have suited the rich robes of the Oriental rather than the plain garb of an English gentleman. Paul instinctively felt that the young man spoke the truth. He was no Englishman; he was not even kin to the dark Spaniard or the swart Italian; he was of the gentle Romany, undeniably a gipsy.
"When did you discover that you were of gipsy blood?" asked Paul.
"I have told you," said Lovel quietly. "About three weeks ago. On the day before that fatal Sunday night I met Milly on the common, and she promised to meet me in the Winding Lane the next night, after service. Shortly before, Gran Jimboy had read Milly's hand, and prophesied that she would come by a violent death. I was angry with the old woman, and when Milly left me I went in search of Mother Jimboy to reprove her."
"How did she take your reproof?"
"By telling me that she was my grandmother. It appeared that her son, my father, who was a pureblooded gipsy, had been a fine singer, and left the Romany tents for the stage. He sang also at private houses in London, and in one of them he met with my mother, who was an heiress in a small way. She fell in love with the gipsy tenor, and ran off with him. They were married, and when I was born my mother died, and asked her husband to take me back to her sister; my father died also, and it was by my aunt--the old maid I spoke of--that I was brought up. Before I was six years of age my father was drowned while going to America; and as he had squandered all the money his wife brought him, I was left penniless. My aunt, who was angered by her sister's marriage, decided to tell me nothing, but gave me my father's name--Lovel is a gipsy name, you know--and left me her little money. So you see, Mr. Mexton, I am a gipsy."