"As they were, once."
"And yet you say that he, Mr. Adair, was a--a----"
"A convict," spoke madam, supplying the words. "I cannot give you details, Arthur: only facts. He was tried, out there, and convicted. He obtained a ticket-of-leave--which I dare say may not have expired yet."
"And his crime?--What was it?"
"I told you. Forgery."
"Did you ever know him?"
"Of course I did: at the time when he was intimate with your father. We never quite knew who he was, Arthur; or who his people were at home, or what had taken him originally to India; but Major Bohun was unsuspicious as the day, as you yourself. There arose great trouble, Arthur; gambling and wickedness, and I can't tell you what: and through it all, nearly up to the last, your father believed in Adair."
"Was he a convict then?"
"No, no; all that came afterwards: not the crime, perhaps, but discovery, trial, and conviction. Arthur--how sorry I am to say it, I can never tell you--your father's son had better go and marry that miserable drab, than a daughter of William Adair."
She pointed to a poor wretch that was passing. A gaunt skeleton of a woman, with paint on her hollow cheeks, and a tawdry gown trailing in the mud.