you tell me shall ever part us."
"Oh, I don't think what I am about to say will have that effect," was Brendon's reply, "but I have a confession to make about my-my birth."
Dorothy looked at him in amazement. "About your birth?" she repeated.
"Yes. You may as well know all, and I know you will not betray me, even to your mother."
"To her least of all," said Dorothy, vehemently. "Tell me quick."
Encouraged by her faith, and by the tender clasp of her hand, George related to her the story of his birth and of his connection with Lord Derrington. Also he detailed how he had gone to seek Mrs. Jersey, and how she had been murdered before he could get the truth out of her. "Or even see her," finished George. "And now you know, dearest, why I do not wish you to repeat this story. If your mother knew it she might think-think-well, she certainly would not let you marry me."
"She has made her mind up already so far as that is concerned," said Dorothy, quickly. "It is Mr. Vane whom she wishes me to marry."
"My cousin, although he does not know it," said George, quietly; "but I want your advice, Dorothy, and will be guided by it. What shall I do? You see, now that Mrs. Jersey is dead there is no chance of getting at the truth."
"Why not advertise?"
"I have tried that for some months in every country paper in the kingdom, but there has been no response. My father and mother must have been married in some out-of-the-way village, in some lonely church. The parson and those who know about the marriage may be dead. In fact, it is extremely probable that they are. Mrs. Jersey was present as my mother's maid, and she might have been able to tell me where the church is. I only want to find the register of the marriage and get the certificate. Then I shall see Lord Derrington and insist on my rights being recognized. He can't leave either the title or the money away from me."
"Have you seen him at all yet?"
"Not to speak to. But he was pointed out to me. I hear he is an old tyrant."
Dorothy shuddered. "A most terrible old man. He always reminds me of one of those Italian despots. There is nothing he would not do provided that the law could not touch him."
"And I dare say, from your description, the things he desires to do are of the kind that the law would make him answerable for."
"George," said Dorothy, after a pause, "do you think he has anything to do with this murder?"
Brendon turned slightly pale and set his lips firmly. "No, dearest," was his reply, but delivered with some uncertainty. "He does not know-at all events from me-that I am seeking for a restitution of my rights, and therefore would have no reason to rid himself of this woman. Besides, I don't know if he is aware of her existence."
It will be seen that Brendon was ignorant that Lord Derrington was the owner of the Jersey mansion and had allowed Madame an annuity. Had he known this much he might have been able to shape his course better; but, being in the dark, he had to do the best he could with Dorothy's assistance. He had asked for her advice and she gave it.
"George, I should get back my birthright if I were you."
"But I may be dragged into this murder case."
"No. Mr. Train can save you from being accused of that. It is only right that you should take your proper position in society. You know I would marry you as you are, and defy my mother and the world. But you owe it to your dead mother and to yourself to show that you have the right to your father's name."
"In that case I shall do what you advise," cried George, taking heart from her firm tone; "and the first thing I shall do will be to see Mr. Ireland.
"Who is he, George?"
"My guardian. He took charge of me after my grandfather Lockwood died, and it was by his advice that I changed my name to baffle the inquiries of Lord Derrington. He will know all about the marriage, and may be able to indicate where my parents went when they eloped. I have never asked him for a detailed statement, but I shall do so now. Once I find a clew, I shall not rest until I prove my legitimacy. For your sake, my dear-for your sake," and he kissed her.
"And for your own," said Dorothy, as they rose. "I shall say nothing to my mother or to any one, George. But tell me all that you do."
"I shall make a regular report," replied Brendon, "but we will probably have to meet elsewhere, as your mother has asked me to discontinue my visits here."
"I shall speak to her," said Dorothy, angrily.
"No. Do not do that. She will only grow angry and make things harder for you, my own heart. Good-by, and God bless you."
They kissed and parted at the door. Brendon was just stepping out into the hall when a thought occurred to him. He re-entered and closed the door. "Dorothy," he asked, in a low whisper, "why did you give me the yellow holly on that night?"
She looked surprised. "It was to please you," she said softly; "and to tell you the truth, George, I thought that the holly was a proof that my mother was relenting toward you."
"How do you mean, Dorothy?"
"It was my mother who gave me the holly," she explained. "I came from the Park and told her you were going to stop with Mr. Train, and that she could set her mind at rest, as I should not see you for a few days. She seemed pleased, and taking the yellow holly from a vase in her boudoir she gave me a sprig, saying that I could give it to you for consolation."
"Did you tell her that you had fastened it in my coat?"
"Yes. But she only laughed, and said it would please you. Why do you ask me this, George?"
"There is no reason for my asking," he replied, suppressing the truth, "but yellow holly is rare."
"Very rare. I don't know where my mother got the sprig."
After this they parted, and Brendon walked thoughtfully away. Mrs. Jersey had been startled by the sight of the holly. Mrs. Ward had given the sprig to Dorothy, who had presented it to him. He asked himself if there was a reason for Mrs. Ward's action.
CHAPTER VI
WHAT MR. IRELAND KNEW
After his disagreeable experience in the Bloomsbury district, Brendon was not very anxious to go there again, but it was necessary that he should do so if he wanted to see his guardian. From force of habit he still continued to call him so, although Mr. Ireland had long since ceased to act in that capacity. George had a sincere respect for him, and frequently paid him a visit. Usually it was one of ceremony or of enjoyment, but on this occasion the young man went in search of knowledge.
Ireland was an eccentric character who collected (of all things) bill-posters. Most collectors turn their attention to stamps, to snuff-boxes, to autographs, and such-like trifles; but Mr. Ireland hunted for those gigantic and gaudy pictures which make gay the thoroughfares of the city. When George entered the dull old house, in an equally dull Bloomsbury street, he found the hall decorated with an immense advertisement of Bovril. Proceeding upstairs he was met on the landing by the famous cats who serve to draw attention to Nestle's Milk, and finally entered a large room on the first floor, where Mr. Ireland sat at his desk surrounded by a perfect art-gallery. Here was Fry's Chocolate; there the Magic Carpet of Cook, and the wall opposite to the three windows looking out onto the street was plastered with theatrical advertisements, more or less crude in color and out of drawing. These were
