"She did, I believe, but your father was so fond of you--for your mother's sake--that he could scarcely bear you out of his sight. However, Eliza went, and Jane came, and then your father went to San Remo. You were then two years of age."
"Did not my father return to England during all that time?"
"No. When he left England with your mother he never returned. She died in Paris, and, with you in charge of a nurse, Vane wandered about the Continent. I was twice in Italy and saw him--the second time it was at San Remo."
"If you disliked my father so much, why did you seek him out?"
"To see you, George. You were her child, and I loved Rosina so dearly." Ireland stopped, gulped down his emotion, and proceeded more calmly: "Yes, I was at San Remo when your father was murdered."
"You never told me that before," said Brendon.
"I never told you anything before," replied Ireland, dryly. "And I should not tell you now, but that my health is getting so bad that I may not live long. I have an incurable disease, which will sooner or later carry me off--no, I don't want sympathy. Let me finish the story and then we need not refer to it again. I had intended to leave a written statement behind me for you, George, but this is better, as you can ask me questions about what you do not understand."
"I understand all so far," said George, thoughtfully. "But about this murder, Mr. Ireland? Who killed my father?"
"That was never discovered. He went to a masked ball and was seen leaving the room in the company of a blue domino. His body was found on the stones of the beach early next morning. He had been stabbed to the heart."
"With a stiletto?" asked Brendon, recollecting the manner of Mrs. Jersey's death.