"Probably half these people have occupied this very sitting-room at some time or the other," Philip said to Gervase. "I only wish to heaven some of them were here now, and that----"
He stopped at a sudden exclamation of his friend, who was gazing fixedly at the page before him.
"What kind of a find is it now, Jerry?" he asked. "Any one very wonderful?"
"It must be a mistake," the other said in a low voice. "And yet how could such a mistake happen? Look at this!" and he pointed with his finger to a line in the book.
"By Jove!" the other exclaimed, as he read, "Août 17, 1854, L'Hon. Gervase Occleve et sa femme." Then he said, "Your father of course, before he inherited his title?"
"Of course! There never was any other Gervase Occleve in existence, except myself, while he was alive. But what can it mean?"
"It means that your father knew this place many years ago, and came here: that is all, I should say. It is a coincidence, but after all it is no more strange that he should know Le Vocq, than that you should."
"But you don't see the curious part of it, Philip! It is the words et sa femme. My father had no wife in 1854! He never had a wife until he married my mother, and then he was Lord Penlyn and no longer known as Gervase Occleve."
And then followed the conversation with which this story opens.
"It is a strange thing," Philip said, "but it must be a mistake."