"The blood of the Wittleworths boils!" stormed Fitz.
"But Marguerite is dead—died ten years ago."
"What nonsense is this!" said the banker, in disgust, though his face was a shade paler than usual.
"We have the means of proving that Marguerite died at the time your wife wrote me the letter to that effect."
"Yes, sir; we can prove it, sir!" added Fitz, forgetting for the moment that he was a puppy. "We can prove it by good and reliable witnesses, sir."
"Ellen, this is absurd," continued Mr. Checkynshaw "My wife did write you a letter; but you know what Paris must have been when the cholera was cutting down men, women, and children by the hundred daily. Marguerite had the cholera, and my wife had it. Is it strange that they were separated? Is it strange that the child was reported to be dead? Is it strange that, at such a time, my wife believed the report? She was mistaken. I found the child, and hastened to correct the false rumors."
"We can prove, by a credible witness, that the child, called Marguerite Chuckingham, died," foamed Fitz.
"Who is the witness?" demanded the banker, turning suddenly upon Mr. Wittleworth, and for the first time, apparently, conscious of his presence.
"By André Maggimore, a good man and true, who was employed in the Hotel de Saltpetre, in the Ruee Saleratus," replied Mr. Wittleworth, triumphantly.
He had been reading a book on Paris, where mention was made of the Salpêtrière, a great almshouse; but the street he named was doubtless his own corruption of the Rue Lacépède, of which he had only heard in André's narrative.