Cynthia hesitated between hope and fear. Could it be possible that my true name had been discovered, and that concealment was no longer desirable or necessary?
"It is most strange, madam," says her relentless persecutor, "that you should not be certain of the name of your own husband. I suppose you could not by any chance have made a mistake in regard to the name of him?"
"I might have done," poor Cynthia faltered; whilst I felt such an overpowering desire to execute a prompt vengeance on the wretch that it was as much as I could do to remain in my seclusion.
"Well, if you might have done," says he, "his name could not by any chance have begun with a 'T.' Could his name be something like 'Tivy,' or 'Tantivy'?"
Poor Mrs. Cynthia had completely lost her bearings by this. She was utterly nonplussed, and looked at the wicked Fielding as helplessly as a child. She was still unable to overcome her scruples about revealing my real name. To do so to a justice of the peace of all people in the world was like to be a most imprudent act. But at the same time she could not rid her mind of the thought that he already knew more than he would tell.
"Tivy or Trivy or Tantivy," says Mr. Fielding; "you are sure his name is nothing of that sort? Now could it by any chance be Tiverton?"
At this mention of my name Cynthia was unable to go further with her imposture. With a face of much confusion and distress she made the confession.
"Well, madam," says Mr. Fielding reproachfully, "why could you not have said so at once without so much beating about the bush? Really the name of Smith was too facile, too obvious. Now as it happens, I am in a position to know where my Lord Tiverton is."
"Oh, sir," says Cynthia, clasping her hands, "I beseech you to tell me of his whereabouts."
"Yes, my dear madam," says Mr. Fielding, "that I will, on one condition."