“God knows,” said Jasper. “None of us at Cheriton ever heard. We fancied he must have been a Frenchman, for she was heard of afterwards—a good many years afterwards—at Boulogne. Our old Vicar saw her there the year before he died—it must have been as late as sixty-four or sixty-five, I fancy,—a wreck, he said. He wouldn’t have recognized her if she hadn’t spoken to him, and she had to tell him who she was. I heard him tell my old master all about it, one summer afternoon at the Vicarage gate, when Sir Godfrey had driven over to see him. Yes, it must have been as late as sixty-five, I believe.”
“Five years after Lord Cheriton bought the estate?”
“About that.”
“Do you remember the name of Miss Strangway’s governess? Of course, you do, though.”
The bailiff rubbed his iron-grey whisker with a puzzled air.
“My memory’s got to be like a corn-sieve of late years,” he said, “but I ought to remember her name. She was at Cheriton over four years, and I only wish I had a guinea for every time I’ve sat behind her and Miss Strangway in the pony chaise. She was a light-hearted, good-tempered young woman, but she hadn’t bone enough for her work. She wasn’t up to Miss Strangway’s weight. Let me see now—what was that young woman’s name?—she was a good-looking girl, sandy, with a high colour and a freckled skin. I ought to remember.”
“Take a glass of claret, Mr. Blake, and take your time. The name will come back to you. Have you ever heard of the lady since she left Cheriton?”
“Never—she wasn’t likely to come back to this part of the world after having been turned out neck and crop, as she was. What was the name of the man who saw the apple fall?—Newton—that was it, Sarah Newton. Miss Strangway used to call her Sally. I remember that.”
“Do you know where she came from, or what her people were?”
“She came from somewhere near London, and it’s my opinion her father kept a shop; but she was very close about her home and her relatives.”