"I am not acquainted with the gentleman in question," said the captain, "but I can tell you his present address. If you choose to inquire at the Pomme d'Or,' in St. Peter's, you will find him lying there, stark dead, stabbed to the heart by his own hand."
George was inexpressibly shocked. In answer to his question, the captain supplied him with these further particulars: Ducie had been stopping at the "Pomme d'Or" for the last two or three days, very much out of health. He had been seen by a doctor, who had pronounced him to be suffering from a species of low fever, brought on through having contracted a severe cold; his nerves, too, seemed to be very much shaken and out of order. There seemed nothing, however, but what a few days' rest, with due attention to the doctor's prescriptions, would have set right. Yesterday morning, on being called, there was no answer, and on the door being forced, Ducie was found dead, having evidently stabbed himself some time in the night with a small dagger that was found on the ground not far away.
George landed at Guernsey, and hurried up to the "Pomme d'Or," where every particular which the captain had given him was confirmed. It was clearly proved that the act must have been premeditated, seeing that the uppermost thing in the dead man's writing-desk was a slip of paper, on which was written a request that in case of anything happening to himself his cousin, the Honourable Egerton Dacre, should at once be communicated with. This request had been complied with before George reached the hotel, so he made up his mind to await the arrival of Mr. Dacre, and detail to him the circumstances which had led to his taking such an interest in the fate of Captain Ducie.
The Hon. Mr. Dacre arrived in due course, and after the funeral was over George introduced himself, and told his story. "It is just the sort of thing Ned would be likely to do," said Mr. Dacre; "to contract a secret marriage, and afterwards to separate from his wife. I am, however, pleased to find that the lady to whom he gave his name came of so excellent a family. As regards his daughter, I know of no reason why she should not be received as such by all of us. I am sure my mother will be delighted to find that Ned has left a child whom she may acknowledge without a blush. Of course you are aware that Ducie has died as poor as a rat, so that in the way of worldly goods the young lady must not expect anything from our side of the house, unless she be in want of a home, in which case we will gladly welcome her. I must, however, lay the whole case before Ned's elder brother, with whom, as being the head of that branch of the family, the settlement of all future details must rest."
Such were the tidings that Captain George Strickland took back with him to Tydsbury.
[CHAPTER XI.]
THE ARRIVAL OF THE DIAMOND AT DUPLEY WALLS.
Mr. Solomon Madgin had not failed to inform Lady Pollexfen from time to time of the progress that was being made in the attempt to recover the Great Mogul Diamond. This he had done without entering into any minute details of the case, of which, indeed, her ladyship cared to hear nothing. It was enough for her to be told every few days that Mr. Madgin still held the clue in his fingers, and that each step which he took would, to the best of his belief, bring him so much nearer the object the attainment of which they both had so deeply at heart.
Lady Pollexfen had of course been apprised that Mr. Madgin's presence in Jersey was needed for the furtherance of their scheme; but when he had been gone a week and no news of any kind had been received from him, she began to grow not only impatient, but uneasy lest Mr. Madgin should in any way have come to grief. She could neither eat nor sleep as she was wont to do, but wandered aimlessly up and down the great empty rooms at Dupley Walls, leaning on Janet's arm, and either muttering to herself about people who had long been dead, or complaining querulously that Mr. Madgin, the man whom she had trusted above all others, had also failed her in her time of need.
To Janet that was indeed a season of heart-weariness. She had not had time to recover from the crushing blow which her mother's death had inflicted upon her. Many a time she woke up in the night and found herself in tears, for not even in sleep could she forget the loss of her whom she had learned to love so dearly, while still ignorant of the tie that bound them so closely together.