Ada shuddered, and as the tears rapidly coursed each other down her cheeks, she said, in a low, plaintive tone,—
“Tell me all now. Surely I have heard the worst. My poor father!”
“Returning with you, when you were an infant, to his native land, and his ancient home, his life was taken by three men. One was his brother, the other a smith, by name Andrew Britton, and the third—”
Sir Francis Harleton paused, and Ada filled up the blank with the words,—
“Jacob Gray.”
“True,” said the magistrate; “Jacob Gray was, it appears, by his own confession, a confidential servant of your father’s, and was suborned by your wicked and most unnatural uncle to commit the crime, or, at all events, aid in its commission, which, for so many years, plunged him in all the miseries of a guilty conscience, and placed you in the singular circumstances from which you have been but so recently rescued.”
“And—and—my name?” said Ada.
“Your name is Learmont.”
“Learmont!” cried Albert “God of Heaven, can this be possible? Then he who I have fancied my friend—he who so speciously taught me to believe he was doing me such great service, is the uncle of Ada!”
“He is, and her father’s murderer.”