“A delicate matter,” the solicitor repeated slowly. “Any financial difficulty—eh?”
“No, not at all,” he laughed. “It’s with regard to a lady.”
“Ah,” ejaculated the solicitor, heaving an unmistakable sigh of relief.
“What I want to know, Graham, is whether you, as my late brother’s adviser, were aware that he was acquainted with a French lady named Dedieu?”
So suddenly was the question put that it caused him to start slightly. Although it was a poser, Bernard Graham was not nonplussed.
“Dedieu?—Dedieu?” he repeated thoughtfully, at the same time nervously twirling a quill between his fingers. “The name is uncommon, and not at all familiar to me. I—I’m sure I don’t remember ever hearing it before.”
“You don’t believe, then, that my brother ever knew such a person?” asked Hugh.
“Well, really, how is it possible that I should know?” asked Graham, with suavity. “It was scarcely likely he would make me acquainted with matters of that description.”
Hugh plied him with several well-directed questions, but the old man’s memory was peculiarly vacant at that moment. He shook his head, reiterating his statement that his mind was perfectly blank upon the subject, declaring emphatically that he never heard of such a young person as Mademoiselle Valérie, whoever she was.
Such an element of truth did this statement possess, and so blandly was it delivered, that Hugh felt perfectly satisfied. For some time past he had been very much perturbed by the curious discovery of the photograph and letters, but his misgivings were now set at rest by this reassurance.