‘How did you know that?’ he gasped.
‘I had it from the lips of a dying woman—Mrs. Trevanard.’
‘What! is Mrs. Trevanard dead?’
‘Yes; she died a fortnight ago.’
‘And she told you——?’
‘All. The birth of the child she entrusted to your care. The old family Bible she gave you, from which you took the name of Justina.’
The shrewd guess, stated as a fact, passed uncontradicted. Maurice’s speculative assertion had hit the truth.
‘The supposed daughter who has borne your name all these years, the girl who has worked for you, who now maintains you, who has been faithful, obedient, and devoted to you, has not one drop of your blood in her veins. She is Muriel Trevanard’s child.’
‘You choose to make a statement,’ said Matthew Elgood, who had somewhat recovered his self-possession by this time, ‘which I do not feel myself called upon either to deny or admit. I am willing to acknowledge that in a time of severe misfortune I took shelter upon Mrs. Trevanard’s premises; that I called myself by a name that was not my own, rather than expose my destitution to the world’s contumely. But whatever passed between Mrs. Trevanard and myself at that period is sacred. I swore to keep the secret confided to me to my dying day, and it will descend with me to the tomb of my ancestors,’ added Mr. Elgood, grandly, as if, for the moment at least, he really believed that he had a family vault at his disposal.
‘You may consider yourself absolved of your oath,’ said Maurice. ‘Mrs. Trevanard confided in me during the last days of her life, and I pledged myself to see her grandchild righted.’