“A man who died in the hospital, who went by the name of Spicer, but whose real name was Walter James; he saw the glass in my hand, recognised it, and on his death-bed revealed all connected with it; but he never knew that the party was still alive when he did so.”
“If Walter James confessed all to you on his death-bed, Mr Saunders, it is certain that you can answer me one question. Was not her real name Fitzgerald?”
“It was, Sir James, as I have understood.”
Sir James O’Connor fell back in his chair, and was silent for some time. He then poured out a tumbler of wine, and drank it off.
“Mr Saunders, do others know of this as well as you?”
“I have never told anyone, except to one old and dearest friend, in case of accident to myself. Mrs St. Felix is ignorant of my knowledge, as well as others.”
“Mr Saunders, that I am most deeply interested in that person I pledge you my honour as an officer and a gentleman. Will you now do me the favour to detail all you do know on this subject, and what were the confessions made you by that man Walter James?”
“I have already, sir, told you more than I intended. I will be candid with you; so much do I respect and value the person in question, that I will do nothing without I have your assurance that it will not tend to her unhappiness.”
“Then, on my honour, if it turns out as I expect, it will, I think, make her the happiest woman under the sun.”
“You said that the spy-glass belonged to a dear friend?”