"Curiously enough, as I rode past the spot where you saw that touching and interesting interview--the lane, I mean--I perceived something glittering among the grass. Dismounting, I picked up that identical locket, which doubtless the lady had dropped, thus losing it within a few days of its bestowal, if we are to judge by the date."
"And you have it?"
"Here."
Opening his leather portemonnaie, he drew from it a gold locket, to which a black-velvet ribbon was attached, and said with the utmost deliberation, "The initials represent those of Henry Hardinge and his inamorata, and behold!"
Pressing a spring, the secret of which he knew very well, the locket flew open, and within it were seen the photograph of the pale woman whom they saw in Craigaderyn church, and opposite to it one of me, inserted by himself, pilfered from the album of Winifred Lloyd, as we afterwards ascertained.
"Aha! the moral Mr. Henry Hardinge with his petite femme entretenue, as the French so happily term it."
Lady Estelle was quite calm now in her demeanour, and she surveyed the locket with a contemptuous smile; but her face was as white as marble. She felt conscious that it was so, and hence sat with her back to the nearest window, lest her mother should perceive that she was affected.
Guilfoyle, smilingly, stood by her, stroking his dyed moustache.
"This must be restored to its owner," said he.
"Permit me to do so," said Lady Estelle.