The baronet looked surprised.
“I never thought to have the opportunity to tell you this,” Marion continued. “I wanted to ask you something, which nobody but you could tell me. I heard you were living in Twickenham, but, when I went there, they told me you would see no one. But, as I was going away, one of your servants said that you would be, at a certain hour, at Vauxhall.”
“Catnip, for a thousand pounds!” interjected the dying man, with some animation.
“I think that was his name,” said Marion. “My husband happened to be away from home that night, so I made up my mind to go. But for a long time I could not find you anywhere. At last, just as I was going away, there was a disturbance in the crowd, and I saw you. But you were not able to speak then.”
“Upon my soul!” said the baronet, with a feeble grimace, “I should have felt honored, madame, had I been aware.... Well, I’m rather far gone for gallantry, now. But what could I have told you, eh?”
“I wanted to know about Mr. Grant. Whether he were really your friend Grantley.”
“Aye? What did you want to know that for?”
“Because he had bequeathed some money to his nearest of kin. If he were Mr. Grantley, the money would have come to my husband: but not so, if he were some one else. And no one could tell me but you.”
“Ha! Well, twenty thousand pounds is worth running some risk for,” said the baronet; “and ’twas some risk to run, begad, going alone to Vauxhall at midnight, my dear! But who withholds the bequest from you? And why didn’t you send your husband or your lawyer to make the inquiry?”
“Because there were reasons why I did not wish my husband to receive the legacy; and there was no way to prevent it, except to know that Mr. Grant was not the person he was supposed to be.”