“Sir Thomas Vandeleur! The General! My father!” cried Francis.
“Your father?” repeated the stranger. “I was not aware the General had any family.”
“I am illegitimate, sir,” replied Francis, with a flush.
The other bowed with gravity. It was a respectful bow, as of a man silently apologising to his equal; and Francis felt relieved and comforted, he scarce knew why. The society of this person did him good; he seemed to touch firm ground; a strong feeling of respect grew up in his bosom, and mechanically he removed his wideawake as though in the presence of a superior.
“I perceive,” said the stranger, “that your adventures have not at all been peaceful. Your collar is torn, your face is scratched, you have a cut upon your temple; you will, perhaps, pardon my curiosity when I ask you to explain how you come by these injuries, and how you happen to have stolen property to an enormous value in your pocket.”
“I must differ from you!” returned Francis hotly. “I possess no stolen property. And if you refer to the diamond, it was given to me not an hour ago by Miss Vandeleur in the Rue Lepic.”
“By Miss Vandeleur in the Rue Lepic!” repeated the other. “You interest me more than you suppose. Pray continue.”
“Heavens!” cried Francis.
His memory had made a sudden bound. He had seen Mr. Vandeleur take an article from the breast of his drugged visitor, and that article, he was now persuaded, was a morocco case.
“You have a light?” inquired the stranger.