"I do not ask from an idle curiosity," added André. "The foreign residents in Paris were generally taken to the same hospital, in the Rue Lacépède. I was then the valet of an English gentleman, who died there of cholera. While I was there—for, after the death of my employer, I was engaged as a kind of interpreter for the English patients who did not speak French—the Hôpital des Enfants Malades was full, and a portion of our establishment was devoted to foreign children. I well remember two children of the name of Margaret; and I have reason to remember them;" and André glanced tenderly at Maggie. "One of them died, and the other is my Maggie."
"But what was the other name of the one that died?" asked Fitz, nervously.
"Marguerite Chuckingham. I suppose there were other Marguerites there; but I did not know them. They could not find the dead child's parents; they were dead themselves. I would like to see your mother's letter," added André.
Accepting Fitz's invitation, the barber and his daughter walked over to "his house," and were introduced to Mrs. Wittleworth. André repeated his story about the two Marguerites, and she was quite as much interested in it as her son had been.
"I have the letter," said she. "I thought the property was mine, and that the letter might be of use to me; so I have carefully preserved it."
She went to the bureau, and produced the letter. It contained a pitiful account of the sufferings of Mrs. Checkynshaw during the cholera season, and the announcement of little Marguerite's death at the hospital in the Rue Lacépède.
"That's the place!" exclaimed André, much excited.
"What became of the child?" asked Mrs. Wittleworth, not less agitated.
"It must have been Marguerite Chuckingham, for that was as near as a Frenchman would be likely to get the name."
"But it may have been the other Marguerite," suggested Mrs. Wittleworth.