"They came into my possession by the action of Providence, to afford your lordship the chance of giving me my life and keeping your own honorable name."
"Your life, my good fellow! You overrate my power and your own value. If your papers are worth anything, I'll give you all the money you ask for your own spending, and the provision of those you leave behind—"
"We'll come to that presently," said Robin. "First, I'll tell you what I have to offer. Some thirty years ago—while His Majesty King Charles was on the throne—a certain lieutenant of the Guards, younger son of a great earl's younger brother, fell in love with a poor schoolmaster's pretty daughter. Passing himself off as a stage-player, under the name of Gregory Vincent, he won the young woman's affection, though not, apparently, her complete confidence; for she went to the pains of investigating the gentleman's private life, and discovered his real name. Then she consented to a secret marriage, at which she substituted a real priest and legal papers for the sham ones with which her honorable lover had intended to cozen her."
"This story has already been communicated to my attorneys," interrupted Lord Beachcombe impatiently. "How are you acquainted with it, and why do you expect it to interest me in you?"
"I know it because a vast number of letters, written by this gentleman, first to his sweetheart and afterward to his wife, have fallen into my hands. They tell the whole history, with many entertaining details, and would prove racy reading in the News sheet for your lordship's friends and foes, especially the latter."
The visitor winced. "No man likes his family affairs held up to ridicule," he said. "I would willingly buy the letters, if genuine."
"Oh! they are genuine; also the marriage certificate, whereof one of the witnesses is still living, and the certificates of the birth and baptism of the son, now twenty-eight years old. I believe your lordship is twenty-six?"
"And why has this matter been allowed to sleep for thirty years?"
"Because Mrs. Vincent—as she temporarily allowed herself to be called—although clever enough to find out that her stage-player lover was really a lieutenant of the King's Guards, masquerading under a false name, was unable to trace him when he disappeared, a year after their marriage, and never knew that in consequence of several deaths, he had become Lord Beachcombe, of whom she probably never heard, and certainly never connected with Lieutenant Gregory de Cliffe. The last of this series of documents is the certificate of the death of the deserted wife, when her son was about five years old, to whom she bequeathed only her wedding-ring and a casket, which was to be opened when he came to man's estate."
Lord Beachcombe's sallow face crimsoned with such a rush of blood, that his eyes were suffused, and he seemed in danger of suffocating.