"Then the son——"
"Son!" echoed the old lady, turning to Durham, who had spoken. "You don't mean to say there is a son?"
"Yes." And Durham, thinking it best to be explicit, gave a detailed account of Mrs. Gilroy's interview. Miss Berengaria listened with great attention, and gave her verdict promptly.
"It's as plain as the nose on my face," she said. "Mrs. Gilroy was really married as she thought, but when she came to see Sir Simon—and that was after the death of both of your parents, my dear," she interpolated, turning to Gore, "she must have learned the truth. I think the old rascal—no, I won't speak evil of the dead—but the good old man"—her hearers smiled at this—"the good old saint was sorry for her. He made her the housekeeper and promised to provide for her after his death."
"Five hundred a year, she says," put in Durham.
"Ah! I can't conceive Simon Gore parting with money to that extent," said Miss Berengaria, dryly, "especially to one who had no claim upon him whatsoever."
"You don't think she had."
"Deuce take the man! Don't I say so? Of course she hadn't. Walter Gore deceived her—begging your pardon for the third time, Bernard—but Sir Simon acted very well by her. I will say that. As to there being a son, I never heard. But if this—what do you call him?"
"Michael Gilroy."
"Well, if Michael Gilroy is the image of Bernard, who is the image of his father in looks, though I hope not in conduct, there is no doubt that he was the man admitted by Mrs. Gilroy, who killed Sir Simon. Of course, she will fight tooth and nail for her son. I daresay—I am convinced that it is fear of what she said to you, Mr. Durham, that has made her go away. And a good riddance of bad rubbish, say I," concluded the old spinster, vigorously, "and for goodness' sake, where's the luncheon? I'm starving."