“For Heaven’s sake, tell me, then, what is this extraordinary

mystery!”


“I will do so, and I will show you the steps by which I reached it. And

let me say to you, first, that which it is hardest for me to say and for you to

hear: there has been an understanding between Sir George Burnwell and your

niece Mary. They have now fled together.”


“My Mary? Impossible!”


“It is unfortunately more than possible; it is certain. Neither you nor

your son knew the true character of this man when you admitted him into your

family circle. He is one of the most dangerous men in England—a ruined

gambler, an absolutely desperate villain, a man without heart or conscience.

Your niece knew nothing of such men. When he breathed his vows to her, as he

had done to a hundred before her, she flattered herself that she alone had

touched his heart. The devil knows best what he said, but at least she became

his tool and was in the habit of seeing him nearly every evening.”


“I cannot, and I will not, believe it!” cried the banker with an

ashen face.


“I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house last night. Your

niece, when you had, as she thought, gone to your room, slipped down and talked

to her lover through the window which leads into the stable lane. His footmarks

had pressed right through the snow, so long had he stood there. She told him of

the coronet. His wicked lust for gold kindled at the news, and he bent her to

his will. I have no doubt that she loved you, but there are women in whom the

love of a lover extinguishes all other loves, and I think that she must have

been one. She had hardly listened to his instructions when she saw you coming

downstairs, on which she closed the window rapidly and told you about one of

the servants’ escapade with her wooden-legged lover, which was all

perfectly true.


“Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview with you but he slept