Eleanor Vane shook her head, smiling bitterly at her friend’s philosophy. Poor mad Constance’s reply always rose, in some shape or other, to the girl’s lips in answer to Richard’s arguments. The Cardinal reasons with wonderful discretion, but the bereaved mother utters one sentence that is more powerful than all the worthy man’s moralities: “He talks to me that never had a son!”
“It is no use preaching to me,” Miss Vane said. “If your father had died by this man’s treachery, you would not feel so charitably disposed towards him. I will keep the promise made three years ago. I will prove Launcelot Darrell’s guilt; and that guilt shall stand between him and Maurice de Crespigny’s fortune.”
“You forget one point in this business, Eleanor.”
“What point?”
“It may take you a very long time to obtain the proof you want. Mr. de Crespigny is an old man and an invalid. He may make a will in Mr. Darrell’s favour and die before you are in a position to tell him of his nephew’s treachery to your poor father.”
Eleanor was silent for a few moments. Her arched brows contracted, and her mouth grew compressed and rigid.
“I must go back to Hazlewood, Dick,” she said, slowly. “Yes, you are right; there is no time to be lost. I must go back to Hazlewood.”
“That is not very practicable, is it, Nell?”
“I must go back, if I go in some disguise—if I go and hide myself in the village, and watch Launcelot Darrell when he least thinks he is observed. I don’t care how I go, Richard, but I must be there. It can only be from the discoveries I make in the present that I shall be able to trace my way back to the history of the past. I must go there!”
“And begin at once upon the business of a detective? Eleanor, you shall not do this, if I can prevent you.”