"That's self-evident. There has been a dreadful mistake somewhere. He will prove that he is alive by paying us a visit. In fact, he will be here this very morning. Well, this is a surprise!"
"More—a pleasure," added his sister.
Beatrice had never seen Idris, but she had often heard of him from Godfrey, and knew the painful story of his boyhood. She was aware, too, that on one occasion, Godfrey, being in pecuniary difficulties, had applied to Idris in preference to the Earl of Ormsby, and had received by return of post a handsome cheque. The memory of this event was still fresh in her mind, and she was desirous of showing her gratitude to her brother's benefactor.
"He signs himself 'Breakspear,' I see," she said, glancing at the signature of Idris.
"Yes: he has dropped the name of Marville, and has taken his mother's maiden name. It is easy to guess his reason."
True to the promise contained in his letter Idris arrived that same morning, and Beatrice took a good view of him from behind the curtain of her bedroom window, as he strode up the garden path accompanied by Godfrey.
Twenty-three years had passed since that memorable night at Quilaix, and Idris was now verging upon thirty—dark-eyed, handsome, athletic, with a face bronzed by southern suns. His appearance impressed Beatrice favourably.
"There is nothing mean or ignoble about him," she murmured.
The first greetings being ended, Idris sat down to a pleasant luncheon, presided over by Beatrice.
"Your name has been so often on Godfrey's lips," she said, "that you seem quite like an old friend, though I never thought to see you after the announcement of your death in the newspapers."