“No, that was the odd part of the business. He had the steady, respectable air of a bread-winner, a professional, or perhaps a commercial man. I could not tell which. There was nothing flashy or dissipated in his appearance. He looked me steadily in the face when he bowed to me at parting, and he had a frank, straightforward expression, and a grave decision of manner that was not without dignity. He was soberly dressed in a style that attracted no attention. I had no doubt that he was a gentleman.”
“He was handsome, you say?”
“Yes, he was decidedly handsome—but I can remember only the general character of his face, not features or details, for I saw him only twice in my life.”
“Ah, you saw him again?”
“Once again—some years later, after her death.”
“She is dead, then?” cried Theodore; “that is the fact I am most anxious to learn from a reliable source of information. There was a rumour of her death years ago, but no one could give me any evidence of the fact. I went to Boulogne last week to try and trace her to her last resting-place; but I could discover neither tombstone nor record of any kind.”
“And yet it was at Boulogne she died. I will tell you all I know about her, if you like. It doesn’t amount to much.”
“Pray, tell me everything you can. I am deeply grateful to you for having treated me with so much frankness.”
“It was on her account I received you. I am glad to talk to any one who is interested in her pitiful fate. There were so few to care for her. I think there is no lot more sad than that of a broken-down gentleman’s daughter, born to an inheritance she is never to enjoy, brought up to think of herself as a personage, with a right to the world’s respect, and finding herself friendless and penniless in the bloom of her womanhood, exposed to the world’s contumely.”
Theodore’s face flushed a little at this mention of his interest in the unhappy lady, for he could but feel that the interest was of a sinister kind; but he held his peace, and Miss Newton went on with her story.