“The Marquis of Delmour, since you must know,” returned the old woman.
“And what did he do,” asked the man, impatiently.
“He gave me a cheque for six hundred pounds for a particular service that I rendered him; and he also gave my daughter——”
“Ah! you have got a daughter, eh?” exclaimed Jack Rily. “Is she anything like yourself?”
“She is as beautiful as an angel,” answered Mrs. Mortimer, a scintillation of a mother’s pride flashing at the moment in her bosom: “but as depraved and dissolute as a demoness,” she added almost immediately. “Well, this Marquis of Delmour was wheedled by her out of a cheque for sixty thousand pounds; and though my daughter kept it quiet enough, I found out the secret. So away I sped—back to England I came——”
“Where did all this happen, then?” demanded Jack.
“In Paris—three days ago,” replied Mrs. Mortimer. “On my arrival in London, my course was easy——”
“You may almost say natural,” interrupted the Doctor. “I understand the business plainly enough at present. You altered your six hundred pound draft into one for sixty thousand—and you have thus forestalled your daughter?”
“That is precisely how the matter stands,” said the old woman.
“And when is it likely that your daughter will be in London to present her cheque?” asked the Doctor.