"Sir Harry Marlowe, I told you—the father, you know, of Jekyl there," and she dropped her voice as she named him, "was in possession at the time when the deed affecting my beloved son's rights was lost."
"Yes, madame."
"And it was the Bishop there who attended him on his death-bed."
"Ho!" exclaimed M. Varbarriere, looking more curiously for a moment at that dapper little gentleman in the silk apron.
"They said he heard a great deal from poor wretched Sir Harry. I have never had an opportunity of asking him in private about it, but I mean to-morrow, please Heaven."
"It may be, madame, in the highest degree important," said Monsieur Varbarriere, emphatically.
"How can it be? My son is dead."
"Your son is"——and M. Varbarriere, who was speaking sternly and with a pallid face, like a man deeply excited, suddenly checked himself, and said—
"Yes, very true, your son is dead. Yes, madame, he is dead."
Old Lady Alice looked at him with a bewildered and frightened gaze.