I described him, and perceived by her way of listening that she had never seen him, and indeed had never heard of him.
"You may take it, Miss Noble," said I, "that whoever Don Lazarillo may have been, he found the money for this adventure."
"That must have been so," she answered; "Don Christoval is poor."
"Had he any property in Cuba?"
"I believe not," she answered.
"Forgive me for being inquisitive. Was—I mean, is the man in any way related to you?"
"He is. He is a distant connection on my father's side. His father was a Spaniard, and, I have always understood, of noble blood. Don Christoval was in England, and called upon us when we were in London. We afterward met him in Paris. My father disliked him, and it came to his forbidding him from holding any communication with us. He then challenged my brother to a duel, and, unknown to my father and mother, my brother attended with a friend, a lieutenant in the Royal Navy; but Don Christoval did not appear. That is entirely all that I can tell you about the man, Mr. Portlack."
"I felt," said I, "that he was lying when he spoke of you as his wife. But how was it possible to make sure of the truth, one way or the other? He put his story so persuasively, his voice was so sweet, he was so very handsome, that any one believing in his tale could not but have pitied him, even to the degree of feeling willing to help him to recover what he called his own."
She slightly colored, and said, "He only wanted my money."