"You are, to the best of my belief, the Lady Helen Dunstan." My companion stood still, and regarded me for a moment in wide-eyed astonishment.
"And how, air, pray, did you learn all this?" she demanded, with the dimple once more peeping at me slyly from the corner of her pretty mouth.
"By the very simple method of adding two and two together," I answered; "moreover, no longer ago than yesterday I broke bread with a certain Mr. Beverley—"
I heard her breath come in a sudden gasp, and next moment she was peering up into my face while her hands beat upon my breast with soft, quick little taps.
"Beverley!" she whispered. "Beverley!—no, no—why, they told me—Sir
Harry told me that Peregrine lay dying—at Tonbridge."
"Then Sir Harry Mortimer lied to you," said I, "for no longer ago than yesterday afternoon I sat in a ditch eating bread and cheese with a Mr. Peregrine Beverley."
"Oh!—are you sure—are you sure?"
"Quite sure. And, as we ate, he told me many things, and among them of a life of wasted opportunities—of foolish riot, and prodigal extravagance, and of its logical consequence—want."
"My poor Perry!" she murmured.
"He spoke also of his love for a very beautiful and good woman, and its hopelessness."