“There it is! The very voice! The very tune I’ve ’eard her sing in the drawing-room at Lanwold!” exclaimed Stanton.
The singer dashed into the room, but broke off in her trills on seeing him.
“What! you are not gone? Papa, who is he?”
“My dear, he is either a madman or—or worse,” said her father. “It’s the most extraordinary thing I ever heard in my life!”
“Speak out, ma’am, and don’t you fear I’ll do you any ’arm; my master wouldn’t ’ave it, not for all the money he’s worth. Nobody knows the sum he’s spent on them detectives already to try and catch you; and it speaks badly for the lot to say they’ve not caught you long ago. But don’t you be afraid of me, ma’am!” urged Stanton, making his voice as mild as he could.
Eliza Jane’s answer was a peal of laughter.
“Why should I be afraid of you? I never laid my eyes on you before, or you on me; you mistake me for somebody else, I tell you. I never heard of Mr. Clide, and I am certain he never heard of me. The idea of your insisting that I’m his wife!” And she laughed again; but there was a nervous twitch about her mouth, and Stanton saw it.
“As like as two peas in a pod!” was his emphatic remark, as he deliberately scanned her face.
There was no denying the resemblance, indeed. The face was fuller, the features more developed, but the interval of years would explain that.
“Look at my hand! You see I have no wedding-ring? Ask me a few questions; you will find out the blunder at once, if you only try,” she said.