“And why is Lord Ellingham, whoever he may be, there?” inquired Miss Wickham.
“Lord Ellingham is also interested in your late guardian,” replied Mr. Pawle. “In fact, we are all interested. So now, rub up your memory—and answer Mr. Carless’ questions.”
Viner remained in the background, quietly watching, while Mr. Pawle effected the necessary introductions. He was at once struck by what seemed to him an indisputable fact—between Lord Ellingham and Miss Wickham there was an unmistakable family likeness. And he judged from the curious, scrutinizing look which Mr. Carless gave the two young people as they shook hands that the same idea struck him—Mr. Carless wound up that look in a significant glance at Mr. Pawle, to whom he suddenly muttered a few words which Viner caught.
“By Jove!” he whispered. “I shouldn’t wonder if you’re right.”
Then he placed Miss Wickham in an easy-chair on his right hand, and cast a preliminary benevolent glance on her.
“Mr. Pawle,” he began, “has told us of your relationship with the late Mr. Ashton—you always regarded him as your guardian?”
“He was my guardian,” answered Miss Wickham. “My father left me in his charge.”
“Just so. Now, have you any recollection of your father?”
“Only very vague recollections. I was scarcely six, I think, when he died.”
“What do you remember about him?”
“I think he was a tall, handsome man—I have some impression that he was. I think, too, that he had a fair complexion and hair. But it’s all very vague.”
“Do you remember where you lived?”
“Only that it was in a very big town—Melbourne, of course. I have recollections of busy streets—I remember, too, that when I left there it was very, very hot weather.”
“Do you remember Mr. Ashton at that time?”
“Oh, yes—I remember Mr. Ashton. I had nobody else, you see; my mother had died when I was quite little; I have no recollection whatever of her. I remember Mr. Ashton’s house, and that he used to buy me lots of toys. His house was in a quiet part of the town, and he had a big, shady garden.”
“How long, so far as you remember, did you live with Mr. Ashton there?”
“Not very long, I think. He told me that I was to go to England, to school. For a little time before we sailed, I lived with Mrs. Roscombe, with whom I came to England. She was very kind to me; I was very fond of her.”
“And who was Mrs. Roscombe?”
“I didn’t know at the time, of course—I only knew she was Mrs. Roscombe. But Mr. Ashton told me, not long before his death, who she was. She was the widow of some government official, and she was returning to England in consequence of his death. So she took charge of me and brought me over. She used to visit me regularly at school, every week, and I used to spend my holidays with her until she died.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Carless. “She is dead?”
“She died two years ago,” answered Miss Wickham.
“I wish she had been living,” observed Mr. Carless, with a glance at Mr. Pawle. “I should have liked to see Mrs. Roscombe. Well,” he continued, turning to Miss Wickham, “so Mrs. Roscombe brought you to England, to school. What school?”
“Ryedene School.”
“Ryedene! That’s one of the most expensive schools in England, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I—perhaps it is.”
“I happen to know it is,” said Mr. Carless dryly. “Two of my clients have daughters there, now. I’ve seen their bills! Do you know who paid yours?”
“No,” she answered, “I don’t know. Mr. Ashton, I suppose.”
“You had everything you wanted, I dare say! Clothes, pocket-money, and so on?”
“I’ve always had everything I wanted,” replied Miss Wickham.
“And you were at Ryedene twelve years?”
“Except for the holidays—yes.”
“You must be a very learned young lady,” suggested Mr. Carless.
Miss Wickham looked round the circle of attentive faces.
“I can play tennis and hockey very well,” she said, smiling a little. “And I wasn’t bad at cricket the last season or two—we played cricket there. But I’m not up to much at anything else, except that I can talk French decently.”
“Physical culture, eh?” observed Mr. Carless, smiling. “Very well! Now, then, in the end Mr. Ashton came home to England, and of course came to see you, and in due course you left school, and came to his house in Markendale Square, where he got a Mrs. Killenhall to look after you. All that correct? Yes? Well, then, I think, from what Mr. Pawle tells me, Mr. Ashton handed over a lot of money to you, and told you it had been left to you, or left in his charge for you, by your father? That is correct too? Very well. Now, did Mr. Ashton never tell you anything much about your father?”
“No, he never did. Beyond telling me that my father was an Englishman who had gone out to Australia and settled there, he never told me anything. But,” here Miss Wickham paused and hesitated for a while, “I have an idea,” she continued in the end, “that he meant to tell me something—what, I, of course, don’t know. He once or twice—hinted that he would tell me something, some day.”
“You didn’t press him?” suggested Mr. Carless.
“I don’t think I am naturally inquisitive,” replied Miss Wickham. “I certainly did not press him. I knew he’d tell me, whatever it was, in his own way.”
“One or two other questions,” said Mr. Carless. “Do you know who your mother was?”
“Only that she was someone whom my father met in Australia.”
“Do you know what her maiden name was?”
“No, only her Christian name; that was Catherine. She and my father are buried together.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Carless. “That is something else I was going to ask. You know where they are buried?”
“Oh, yes! Because, before we sailed, Mrs. Roscombe took me to the
