the first wife," Hugh Ritson interrupted again.
Mr. Bonnithorne shook his head with an innocent expression.
"Wife? Well, he left her."
"You talk of a son. Had they one?"
"They had," said Mr. Bonnithorne, "and when the woman and child … disappeared – "
"Exactly," said Hugh Ritson, and he smiled. "What did Lowther then?"
"Married again, and had a daughter – Greta."
"Then why the legacy?"
"Conscience-money," said Mr. Bonnithorne, pursing up his mouth.
Hugh Ritson laughed slightly.
"The sort of fools' pence the Chancellor of the Exchequer receives labeled 'Income Tax.'"
"Precisely – only Lowther had no address to send it to."
"He had behaved like a scoundrel," said Hugh Ritson.
"True, and he felt remorse. After the second marriage he set people to find the poor woman and child. They were never found. His last days were overshadowed by his early fault. I believe he died broken-hearted. In his will – I drew it for him – he left, as I say, a sum to be paid to this son of his first wife – when found."
Hugh Ritson laughed half mockingly.
"I thought he was a fool. A scoundrel is generally a fool as well."
"Generally; I've often observed it," said Mr. Bonnithorne.
"What possible interest of anybody's could it be to go hunting for the son of the fool's deserted wife?"
"The fool," answered Mr. Bonnithorne, "was shrewd enough to make an interest by ordering that if the son were not found before Greta came of age, a legacy of double the sum should be paid to an orphanage for boys."
Hugh Ritson's respect for the dead man's intelligence experienced a sensible elevation.
"So it is worth a legacy to the family to discover Greta's half-brother," he said, summing up the situation in an instant. "If alive – If not, then proof that he is dead."
The two men had walked some distance, and reached the turning of a lane which led to a house that could be seen among the trees at the foot of a ghyll. The younger man drew up on his infirm foot.
"But I fail to catch the relevance of all this. When I mentioned that I was a second son you – "
"I have had hardly any data to help me in my search," Mr. Bonnithorne continued. He was walking on. "Only a medallion-portrait of the first wife." Mr. Bonnithorne dived into a breast-pocket.
"My brother Paul is living. What possible – "
"Here it is," said Mr. Bonnithorne, and he held out a small picture.
Hugh Ritson took it with little interest.
"This is the portrait of the nun," he said, as his eyes first fell on it, and recognized the coif and cape.
"A novice – that's what she was when Lowther met her," said Mr. Bonnithorne.
Then Hugh Ritson stopped. He regarded the portrait attentively; looked up at the lawyer and back at the medallion. For an instant the strong calm which he had hitherto shown seemed to desert him. The picture trembled in his hand. Mr. Bonnithorne did not appear to see his agitation.
"Is it a fancy? Surely it must be fancy!" he muttered.
Then he asked aloud what the nun's name had been.
"Ormerod."
There was a start of recovered consciousness.
"Ormerod – that's strange!"
The exclamation seemed to escape inadvertently.
"Why strange?"
Hugh Ritson did not answer immediately.
"Her Christian name?"
"Grace."
"Grace Ormerod? Why, you must know that Grace Ormerod happened to be my own mother's maiden name!"
"You seem to recognize the portrait."
Hugh Ritson had regained his self-possession. He assumed an air of indifference.
"Well, yes – no, of course not – no," he said, emphatically, at last.
In his heart there was another answer. He thought for the moment when he set eyes on the picture that it looked like – a little like – his own mother's face.
They walked on. Mr. Bonnithorne's constant smile parted his lips. Lifting his voice rather unnecessarily, he said:
"By the way, another odd coincidence! Would you like to know the name of Grace Ormerod's child by Robert Lowther?"
Hugh Ritson's heart leaped within him, but he preserved an outward show of indifference, and drawled:
"Well, what was it?"
"Paul."
The name went through him like an arrow, then he said, rather languidly:
"So the half-brother of Greta Lowther, wherever he is, is named – "
"Paul Lowther," said Mr. Bonnithorne. "But," he added, with a quick glance, "he may – I say he may – be passing by another name – Paul something else, for example."
"Assuredly – certainly – yes – yes," Hugh Ritson mumbled. His all but impenetrable calm was gone.
They reached the front of the house, and stood in a paved court-yard. It was the home of the Ritsons, known as the Ghyll, a long Cumbrian homestead of gray stone and green slate. A lazy curl of smoke was winding up from one chimney through the clear air. A gossamer net of the tangled boughs of a slim brier-rose hung over the face of a broad porch, and at that moment a butterfly flitted through it. The chattering of geese came from behind.
"Robert Lowther was the father of Grace Ormerod's child?" said Hugh Ritson, vacantly.
"The father of her son Paul."
"And Greta is his daughter? Is that how it goes?"
"That is so – and half-sister to Paul."
Hugh Ritson raised his eyes to Mr. Bonnithorne's face.
"And of what age would Paul Lowther be now?"
"Well, older than you, certainly. Perhaps as old as – yes, perhaps as old – fully as old as your brother."
Hugh Ritson's infirm foot trailed heavily on the stones. His lips quivered. For a moment he seemed to be rapt. Then he swung about and muttered:
"Tut! it isn't within belief. Thrusted home, it might betray a man, Heaven only knows how deeply."
Mr. Bonnithorne looked up inquiringly.
