‘The name of my wife’s old home is Eastwood.’
‘Eastwood? Tell me quickly, is it possible that your wife’s uncle is Mr Charles Morton?’
‘The same,’ Edgar gasped.—‘What do you know of him?’
‘What do I know of him? Why, he was the man I was going to visit; and he’s dead, poor old fellow! You see, I always liked him, and once I saved his life. It’s a curious thing, but when you do a man a favour, or save his life, or any trifle of that kind, you always get to like him some way. Poor old Morton! Well, if this don’t beat snakes! And your wife is the little Nelly he was always raving about? Dear, dear!’
‘There must be something more than meets the eye here,’ Edgar said, with a little quaver in his voice. ‘Taking all the circumstances into consideration, it looks as if some inscrutable providence has a hand in it.’
‘You bet. I’m not particularly learned, nor no scholar; but I do remember some lines of your immortal poet which tells us “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.” The more I think of life, the more it puzzles me, and that’s a fact. To think of you and I—two people in five millions—meeting by such chance! And to think of your wife being the niece of my old friend!’
‘Did he speak much of her to you?’ Edgar asked.
‘A few. “Speak” is no word for it: he raved about her. If ever a man loved a girl, it was your uncle. You must not judge him harshly.’
‘I do not; I never did. That there has been collusion, or something more, I have always been convinced. He was so fond of me till his half-sister came; and as to Nelly, he worshipped her.’
‘He just did, I know. I should like to see that letter.’