She shook her head again.
“I have absolutely no knowledge of the subject. My uncle never took me into his confidence,” she said; “he was very uncommunicative where business was concerned—although I am sure he was fond of me.” Her eyes filled with tears, not at the recollection of his kindness, but at the humiliation she experienced at playing a part in which she had no heart. It made her feel inexpressibly mean and small.
“That is all,” said Mr. Debenham. “I shall see you at the registrar’s office.”
She nodded.
“May I express the hope,” he said, in his heavy manner, “that your life will be a very happy one, and that your marriage will prove all you hope it will be?”
“I hardly know what I hope it will be,” she said wearily, as she accompanied him to the door.
That good man shook his head sadly as he made his way back to his office.
Was there ever so unromantic and prosaic affair as this marriage, thought Doris, as she stepped into the taxicab which was to convey her to the registrar’s office? She had had her dreams, as other girls had had, of that wonderful day when with pealing of the organ she would walk up the aisle perhaps upon the arm of Gregory Farrington, to a marriage which would bring nothing but delight and happiness. And here was the end of her dreams, a great heiress and a beautiful girl rocking across London in a hired cab to a furtive marriage.
Frank was waiting for her on the pavement outside the grimy little office. Mr. Debenham was there, and a clerk he had brought with him as witness. The ceremony was brief and uninteresting; she became Mrs. Doughton before she quite realized what was happening.
“There is only one thing to do now,” said the lawyer as they stood outside again on the sunlit pavement.
He looked at his watch.
“We had best go straight away to the London Safe Deposit, and, if you will give me the authority, I will take formal possession of your fortune and place it in the hands of my bankers. I think these things had better be done regularly.”
The girl acquiesced.
Frank was singularly silent during the drive; save to make some comment upon the amount of traffic in the streets, he did not speak to her and she was grateful for his forbearance. Her mind was in a turmoil; she was married—that was all she knew—married to somebody she liked but did not love. Married to a man who had been chosen for her partly against her will. She glanced at him out of the corners of her eyes; if she was joyless, no less was he. It was an inauspicious beginning to a married life which would end who knew how? Before the depressing granite façade of the London Safe Deposit the party descended, Mr. Debenham paid the cabman, and they went down the stone steps into the vaults of the repository.
There was a brief check whilst Mr. Debenham explained his authority for the visit, and it was when the officials were making reference to their books that the party was augmented by the arrival of Poltavo.
He bowed over the girl’s hand, holding it a little longer than Frank could have liked, murmured colourless congratulations and nodded to Debenham.
“Count Poltavo is here, I may say,” explained the lawyer, “by your late uncle’s wishes. They were contained in a letter he wrote to me a few days before he disappeared.”
Frank nodded grudgingly; still he was generous enough to realize something of this man’s feelings if he loved Doris, and he made an especial effort to be gracious to the newcomer.
A uniformed attendant led them through innumerable corridors till they came to a private vault guarded by stout bars. The attendant opened these and they walked into a little stone chamber, illuminated by overhead lights.
The only article of furniture in the room was a small safe which stood in one corner. A very small safe indeed, thought Frank, to contain so large a fortune. The lawyer turned the key in the lock methodically, and the steel door swung back. The back of Mr. Debenham obscured their view of the safe’s interior. Then he turned with an expression of wonder.
“There is nothing here,” he said.
“Nothing!” gasped Doris.
“Save this,” said the lawyer.
He took a small envelope and handed it to the girl. She opened it mechanically and read:
“I have, unfortunately, found it necessary to utilize your fortune for the furtherance of my plans. You must try and forgive me for this; but I have given you a greater one than you have lost, a husband.”
She looked up.
“What does this mean?” she whispered.
Frank took the letter from her hand and concluded the reading.
“A husband in Frank Doughton. …”
The words swam before his eyes.
“And Frank Doughton is the heir to the Tollington millions, as his father was before him. All the necessary proofs to establish his identity will be discovered in the sealed envelope which the lawyer holds, and which is inscribed ‘C.’ ”
The letter was signed “Gregory Farrington.”
The lawyer was the first to recover his self-possession; his practical mind went straight to the business at hand.
“There is such an envelope in my office,” he said, “given to me by Mr. Farrington with strict instructions that it was not to be handed to his executors or to any person until definite instructions arrived—instructions which would be accompanied by unmistakable proof as to the necessity for its being handed over. I congratulate you, Mr. Doughton.”
He turned and shook hands with the bewildered Frank, who had been listening like a man in a dream; the heir to the Tollington millions; he, the son of George Doughton, and all the time he had been looking for—what? For his own grandmother!
It came on him all of a rush. He knew now that all his efforts, all his search might have been saved, if he had only realized
