He pointed to the top of the last page, or rather the last half of the cover. I read as follows:
‘MARRIAGES, 1748.
‘Mr Wilfrid Cumbermede Daryll, of the Parish of {——} second son of Sir Richard Daryll of Moldwarp Hall in the County of {——} and Mistress Elizabeth Woodruffe were married by a license Jan. 15.’
‘I don’t know the name of Daryll,’ I said.
‘It was your own great-grandfather’s name,’ he returned. ‘I happen to know that much.’
‘You knew this was here, Mr Coningham,’ I said. ‘That is why you brought me here.’
‘You are right. I did know it. Was I wrong in thinking it would interest you?’
‘Certainly not. I am obliged to you. But why this mystery? Why not have told me what you wanted me to go for?’
‘I will why you in turn. Why should I have wanted to show you now more than any other time what I have known for as many years almost as you have lived? You spoke of a ride—why shouldn’t I give a direction to it that might pay you for your trouble? And why shouldn’t I have a little amusement out of it if I pleased? Why shouldn’t I enjoy your surprise at finding in a place you had hardly heard of, and would certainly count most uninteresting, the record of a fact that concerned your own existence so nearly? There!’
‘I confess it interests me more than you will easily think—inasmuch as it seems to offer to account for things that have greatly puzzled me for some time. I have of late met with several hints of a connection at one time or other between the Moat and the Hall, but these hints were so isolated that I could weave no theory to connect them. Now I dare say they will clear themselves up.’