Lady Essington and her son acknowledged the introduction by an inclination of the head, the Honourable Felix and Mrs. Carruthers, ditto; then her ladyship’s son spoke up in his usual blunt, outspoken way.
“I say, Deland, what’s in the wind?” he asked. “What lark are you up to now? Felix says you’ve got a clinking big surprise for us all, and here we are, dear boy, all primed and ready for it. Let’s have it, there’s a good chap.”
“Very well, so you shall,” he replied. “But first of all let me lay aside a useless mask and acknowledge that I am not an Indian army officer—I am a simple police detective sometimes called George Headland, your ladyship, and sometimes——”
“George Headland!” she broke in sharply, getting up and then sitting down again, pale and shaken. “And you came—you came after all! Oh, thank you, thank you! I know you would not confess this unless you have succeeded. Oh, you may know at last—you may know!” she added, turning upon the Honourable Felix and his wife. “I sent for him—I brought him here. I want to know and I will know whose hand it is that is striking at Strathmere’s life—my child’s child—the dearest thing to me in all the world. I don’t care what I suffer, I don’t care what I lose, I don’t care if the courts award him to the veriest stranger, so that his dear little life is spared and he is put beyond all danger for good and all.”
Real love shone in her face and eyes as she said this, and it was the certainty of that which surprised Carruthers and his wife as much as the words she spoke.
“Good heavens! is this thing true!” The Honourable Felix turned to Cleek as he spoke. “Were you in her pay, too? Was she also working for the salvation of the boy?”
“Yes,” he made answer. “I entered into her service under the name of George Headland, Mr. Carruthers—the service of a good woman whom I misjudged far enough to give her a fictitious name. I entered into yours by one to which I have a better right—Hamilton Cleek!”
“Cleek!” Both her ladyship and her son were on their feet like a flash; there was a breath of silence and then: “Well, I’m dashed!” blurted out young Essington. “Cleek, eh? the great Cleek? Scotland!” And sat down again, overcome.
“Yes, Cleek, my friend; Cleek, ladies and gentlemen all. And now that the mask is off, let me tell you a short little story which—no! Pardon, Mr. Essington, don’t leave the room, please. I wish you, too, to hear.”
“Wasn’t going to leave it—only going to shut the door.”