“He is with Miss Huntley,” said the girl, with some embarrassment, evidently wishing me to take the hint and leave.
“Indeed! and she is his sweetheart, I suppose?”
The girl laughed merrily, and said she supposed so.
I only understood that laugh when I saw Miss Huntley—a toothless old woman, old enough to be my mother, or John’s grandmother. From the girl I learned that her mistress was possessed of considerable property, and that John and she were soon to be made one.
I doubted that, but did not say so. I had no qualms whatever, and sharply demanded to be shown in. John became ghastly pale the moment he sighted my face. Miss Huntley had the stolen umbrella in her hands, and was admiringly examining her initials on the gold top.
“Is that your umbrella, ma’am?” I asked, in a tone which made her blink at me over her spectacles.
“Yes, I’ve just got it in a present from Mr Atkinson,” she answered.
“Oh, indeed! And did he give you any other presents?” I sternly pursued, as John sank feebly into a chair.
She refused to answer until I should say who I was and what was my business there; but when I did explain matters, the poor old skeleton was quite beyond answering me. She was horrified at the discovery that John was a thief, but more so, I am convinced, to find that he was not a gentleman at all, but only a flunkey. In the confusion of her fainting and hysterics, I had the opportunity of examining the gold watch, which was taken from her pocket by the servant, and found inside the back of the case a watch-paper bearing Mr Ward’s name and address, and also the written date of the sale, which corresponded exactly with that already in my possession. The brooch and other articles were readily given up by Miss Huntley, as soon as she was restored to her senses. Had she been fit for removal, we should have taken her too, but the shock had been too much for her, and her medical man positively forbade the arrest.
John made a clean breast of the swindle and impersonation, and went to prison for a year, while the poor old woman he had made love to went to a grave which could scarcely be called early. I met John some years after in a seedy and broken-down condition, and looking the very opposite of the haughty aristocrat he had seemed when first we met. I scarcely recognised him, but when I did, I said significantly—