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 not modern, but had been acquired by Ireland in the dark ages when street art was in its infancy. The effect of the whole was bizarre and striking, but George was too used to the spectacle to pay much attention to the gallery.

The room was very bare, so as to give space for the collection. Mr. Ireland sat at a mahogany desk in the center, which was placed on a square of carpet. Beside this desk stood a chair, and in one corner of the room was a safe painted green. Other furniture there was none, and what with the huge pictures, the bare floor, and the want of curtains to the windows the effect was comfortless and dreary, but Mr. Ireland did not seem to mind in the least.

He was a tall old man with rather long white hair and a clean-shaven, benign face. His unusual height did away with the impression of his excessive stoutness, for he appeared to be as fat as Daniel Lambert. George often wondered at his size, considering that the man ate comparatively little. Mr. Ireland was dressed in glossy broadcloth scrupulously brushed, and wore an old-fashioned Gladstone collar. He had mild blue eyes, rather watery, and a large mouth with full red lips. This hint of sensuality was contradicted by the serenity and pallor of his face, and by his life, which was as correct as his dress and as methodical as his hours.

Never was there so methodical a man. He lived by the clock, and with him one day exactly resembled another. He rose at a certain hour and retired precisely when the hand on the clock indicated another. His meals were always regular, and he had stated hours for walking, when he went out, whether it was wet or fine, sunny or foggy. The man was like a machine, and George, when living with him in his early days, had often found these restrictions irksome. It was one o'clock when Brendon called, and Mr. Ireland had just finished his luncheon. At two precisely he would leave the house for his one hour's constitutional. Brendon was aware of this, and had timed his visit accordingly. Nevertheless, Ireland looked at his watch and mentioned the fact.

"I can only give you an hour, George," he said. "You know my habits."

"An hour will be sufficient," replied Brendon, taking the one chair. "You are not looking very well, sir," he added, noting the fagged air of the old man.

"I have not been sleeping so soundly as usual," rejoined Ireland, producing a box of cigars and passing them. "At my age, and I am now seventy-five, I can't be expected to enjoy my bed so much as a young person. Take a cigar."

"The old brand," said Brendon, selecting one.

"I never vary," replied his guardian, gravely. "Pass that matchbox, George. Have you a light? Good. Now we can talk for the next fifty-five minutes. What is it?"

As time was short, and Mr. Ireland would be sure to terminate the interview exactly at the stated hour, George plunged immediately into the business which had brought him hither. "I wish to hear the story of my parents," he said deliberately.

The cigar fell from the fat fingers of Ireland, and he stared in amazement at the young man. "It is rather late in the day for that, is it not?" he asked, picking up the cigar and recovering himself.

"Better late than never," quoted George, puffing a cloud of smoke.

"A proverb is no answer," said Ireland, testily. "Then, if you wish to know, sir, I am in love."

"That is no answer, either."

"It will lead to a very explicit answer," rejoined the young man, coolly. "Love leads to marriage, and in my case marriage cannot take place unless I know that I am legitimate."

"Of course you are. I have always maintained that you are."

"What proof have you?" asked George, eagerly.

Ireland hesitated and wiped his mouth in quite an unnecessary manner with a red silk handkerchief. "Your father always declared that Miss Lockwood was his lawful wife, and treated her with every respect."

"Did my father ever tell you where the marriage was celebrated?"

"No; I never asked, nor did your grandfather Lockwood. It was not till after your mother's death that Lord Derrington denied the marriage. Then Mr. Vane was in Italy and never troubled about the matter."

"He should have done so, for my sake," said George, indignantly.

"Certainly, and I urged him to do so," said Mr. Ireland, heavily. "I was in Italy at the time, and you were only an infant in arms."

"Who was my nurse then?"

"Jane Fraser--the Scotch nurse who afterward brought you to your grandfather Lockwood when Mr. Vane was murdered."

"Do you remember the other nurse--the first one I had?"

Mr. Ireland grew indignant, and puffed angrily at his cigar. "I do, indeed," he said wrathfully, "a vulgar, forward hussy. She was not bad-looking, either, and set up for being a lady." Here he began to laugh. "Would you believe it, George, my boy, she was in love with your father, and showed it so plainly that he was obliged to get rid of her?"

"What was her name?"

"Eliza Stokes. And she was handsome in a bouncing way."

"What became of her?"

"I can't tell you," said Ireland, with sudden reserve.

"Did you see her after she was dismissed?"

Ireland turned his cigar slowly and did not look at George when he replied. "Yes, I did. When and where it does not matter."

"But it does matter--to me!" cried Brendon, anxiously. "It is to know about her that I came here to see you to-day."

"I thought you came about your birth," said Ireland, sharply.

"That among other things."

The old man looked down again and appeared to be in deep thought. He was turning over in his own mind how much or how little he should tell George. And the young man looked at him anxiously. Much depended upon the speech of Mr. Ireland. At last the silence was broken, and by a most unexpected remark. "I loved your mother," said Ireland.

"I never knew that," said Brendon, softly, for he saw that the man was moved at the recollection of some early romance.

"I never spoke of it before," was the reply, and Ireland laid down his cigar to speak the more freely. "Yes, I loved Rosina Lockwood with all my heart and soul. I was not bad-looking in those days, George, and I had a good income, but she preferred that scamp," and he struck his hand heavily on the table, with glowing eyes.

"You are talking of my father, sir," said Brendon, stiffly.

"I ask your pardon. But if you wish me to tell the story of that most unfortunate affair you cannot hope that I shall keep my temper. I was very badly treated by--well--" with a glance at George, Ireland nodded--"let the dead rest in peace."

"I think it will be as well," said Brendon, coldly.

Ireland again struck the table. His pallid skin became a deep crimson, and his eyes flashed. George rose in alarm, for the old man struggled to speak with such an obvious effort that he thought an apoplectic fit would end the conversation. He hastily poured out a glass of water and begged Ireland to loosen his neckcloth. But the man shook his head, and going to one of the windows opened it. For a few moments he inhaled the air, and returned to his seat more composed. "I beg your pardon, George," he gasped, when he recovered his voice, "but if you wish me to tell you anything you must not speak to me like that. I have a bad temper."

"I never knew that," said Brendon, in a soothing tone. "You were always kind to me."

"I have a superlatively bad temper," repeated Ireland, "but you were her child. How could I be angry with her child? Wait! Wait, I shall tell you all I can. Give me a few moments."

He was so moved with emotion, and with the recollection of the past, that he buried his head in his arms, which were resting on the table. Brendon, respecting this feeling, walked to the end of the room and stared at a picture which represented a star of the ballet. But he did not see the saucy face, the twirling skirts. He was thinking how strange it was that Ireland should never have confessed this love before. Certainly he had never displayed such emotion. A change had come over the man, whereby he more plainly revealed his feelings than he was wont to do. George put this down to old age, and to less self-control consequent on the same. Shortly he heard Ireland calling to him, and returned to his seat to find the old man smoking quietly and rather ashamed of his outbreak. "But you shall see no more of that," he said.

"I am sorry to be obliged to ask you for a story of the past," said Brendon, apologetically, "but it means so much to me."

"I'll tell you all I can," said Ireland, taking no notice of the apology, but looking at the ash on his cigar. He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, and then began abruptly. "I first met your mother at her father's house in Amelia Square, where I went to take lessons in singing. Lockwood was famous for his method in those days, and his fame was increased by the appearance of your mother, Rosina, at many concerts. She was a most beautiful creature, and was as much admired for her beauty as for her voice. Ah! what a voice. It was like the trill of a lark, flexible and silvery, and with an immense range. She was quite the rage for a season, and was called the English Jenny Lind. Many offers were made to her for the operatic stage. I dare say she would have accepted in the end had she not met with Percy Vane, and he----" Ireland's hand clenched.

"My father," said George, willfully disregarding this sign of temper, "how did he meet her?"

"He saw her at a concert and fell in love with her. Then he came to take singing-lessons, with the voice of a frog. Bah! it was a mere blind. It was Rosina Lockwood he was after. I saw it--oh, yes! The eyes of love are keen, and, although Rosina would not waste a look on me, I watched her every action. Many a night have I paced Amelia Square watching her window. When she sang I was entranced, when she smiled----" Here the old man shook his head and made an effort to recover himself.

Brendon saw that the recital was painful to him, and but that he was so anxious to get at the proofs of his birth would have asked him to desist. But there was too much at stake for such consideration to be shown. "Go on," he said softly, and Ireland resumed.

"Percy Vane was a handsome man, and rich. I warned Lockwood that he was in love with Rosina, but the old man would not heed. He was flattered by the attention Rosina received. All through that season Vane was in attendance on Rosina. At the end of it he eloped with her--yes. He met her outside St. James's Hall and they eloped."

"Where did they go to?" asked Brendan, eagerly.

"That I cannot say. Rosina wrote three weeks afterward from Paris, signing herself Vane, and stating that she was the wife of Percy."

"Was my grandfather angry?"

"Yes and no. He was angry that he should have lost her, for she was of use to him as an advertisement of his method of singing, and also she earned a great deal of money. The house in Amelia Square was large and required a good deal to keep it up. Besides, Anthony Lockwood was extravagant. That was why you were left so badly off."

Brendon shrugged his shoulders. "It was good of my grandfather to leave me anything," he said, "but in what way was my--Mr. Lockwood, pleased? You hinted that he was not quite angry."

"Well," said Ireland, slowly twirling the cigar in his fingers, "you see he was flattered that his daughter should have married into the aristocracy."

"Then there was no question of the marriage, then?"

"No. Lord Derrington said nothing till your mother was dead, and even then he said very little. It was when Vane was murdered at San Remo that he first decisively asserted that no marriage had taken place. He did so because Lockwood insisted that Derrington should acknowledge you as the heir. He refused to do so, and said that his second son was the heir."

"That is Walter Vane's father?"

"Exactly. And now the father is dead, Walter Vane stands in your shoes. I wish you could prove the marriage, my boy," said Ireland, shaking his head, "but it will be a difficult task."

"I don't care how difficult it is," replied Brendon, resolutely. "I am determined to learn the truth."

"Who is the lady?" asked Ireland.

"Miss Dorothy Ward. You don't know anything of her."

Ireland shook his head. "I left the adoration of the aristocracy to Lockwood," he said, with something like a sneer, "but that's neither here nor there, my boy. To make a long story short, I met your mother in Paris, and shortly afterward she died, giving birth to you. Eliza Stokes was with her when she died, and you were given into the charge of that woman. Your mother was buried in Père la Chaise. Vane put up a stone to her--oh! he behaved very well, I don't deny that," added Ireland, but with a dark face; "he was really fond of her. And I suppose there was a marriage."

"Did my mother ever say anything about it?"

"Never. You asked me that before. It was an accepted fact. After the death of Rosina her husband went to Italy. I was there, too, and it was at Milan that the episode occurred which led to the dismissal of Eliza Stokes."

"What was that?"

"Why, there was a young English waiter, quite a boy he was, who fell in love with Eliza when she was taking charge of you at the H?tel de Ville. She refused to marry him and hinted that she loved your father. Vane heard of this and taxed her with impertinence. The end of it was that Eliza said too much and was dismissed. And Jane Fraser was sent from England by Vane's mother to nurse you. That looks as though Lady Derrington believed in the marriage."

"It does," admitted Brendon, hopefully. "She would not have sent a nurse had anything been wrong. On the other hand, if she had been quite certain about the marriage she might have offered to take charge of me."

"She did, I believe, but your father was so fond of you--for your mother's sake--that he could scarcely bear you out of his sight. However, Eliza went, and Jane came, and then your father went to San Remo. You were then two years of age."

"Did not my father return to England during all that time?"

"No. When he left England with your mother he never returned. She died in Paris, and, with you in charge of a nurse, Vane wandered about the Continent. I was twice in Italy and saw him--the second time it was at San Remo."

"If you disliked my father so much, why did you seek him out?"

"To see you, George. You were her child, and I loved Rosina so dearly." Ireland stopped, gulped down his emotion, and proceeded more calmly: "Yes, I was at San Remo when your father was murdered."

"You never told me that before," said Brendon.

"I never told you anything before," replied Ireland, dryly. "And I should not tell you now, but that my health is getting so bad that I may not live long. I have an incurable disease, which will sooner or later carry me off--no, I don't want sympathy. Let me finish the story and then we need not refer to it again. I had intended to leave a written statement behind me for you, George, but this is better, as you can ask me questions about what you do not understand."

"I understand all so far," said George, thoughtfully. "But about this murder, Mr. Ireland? Who killed my father?"

"That was never discovered. He went to a masked ball and was seen leaving the room in the company of a blue domino. His body was found on the stones of the beach early next morning. He had been stabbed to the heart."

"With a stiletto?" asked Brendon, recollecting the manner of Mrs. Jersey's death.

"Yes. Hence it was supposed that he had been stabbed by some jealous Italian, who had followed him and the lady. But the truth was never known. I think myself that Vane was murdered on the parade and that his body was thrown over onto the beach. The man who killed him must then have taken away the lady."

"Who was the lady--the blue domino?"

"No one ever learned. She was cloaked and masked. Your father was a gay man, George, and it was rumored that he was in love with the wife of a certain officer. It might be that the husband--but of course I cannot say. The blue domino may not have been the woman in question. The whole thing is a mystery. Your father's body was taken to England, and as Lord Derrington refused to acknowledge the marriage, Lockwood took charge of you."

"I remember, and Jane Fraser was my nurse for many years. She was at San Remo when the murder took place?"

"Yes, and so was Eliza Stokes."

"What was she doing there?"

"Well, this waiter--by the way, his name was George also, although you were called after Lockwood's father--well, George Rates, seeing that Eliza was dismissed, got her a situation at a hotel in San Remo. He came there also during the season, and I believe the two married. But Eliza Stokes never came near your father."

"What became of her afterward?"

Ireland hesitated. "I can't say," he said.

"But I can," observed George, coolly. "She was murdered the other day at the Amelia Square house as Mrs. Jersey."

"I heard of that crime. But how do you identify Eliza Stokes with Mrs. Jersey?"

"My old nurse, Jane Fraser, told me. When I began these inquiries I looked up Jane, who now lives in a little Essex village. She told me all she could, which was not much. But she stated that when here one day, on a visit to you, she had met Eliza Stokes and in spite of her age and gray hairs she had recognized her. Eliza told her that she was called Mrs. Jersey and had taken a boarding-house in Amelia Square. I then determined to speak to Mrs. Jersey, whom I thought might have been present at the marriage, or at all events might know where it had been celebrated."

"It is probable she did," said Ireland, "as she was with your mother as maid when the elopement took place. Did you see Mrs. Jersey, or Eliza Stokes as I still regard her?"

"I saw her, but she was murdered before I could manage to speak to her on the subject. Did you know----"

"I know that Eliza Stokes had changed her name to Mrs. Jersey and was in Amelia Square," said Ireland, "but I only learned this the other day."

"Who told you?"

"A woman called Miss Bull," said Ireland.

"Miss Bull," repeated George. "I remember, that was the boarder who foretold a violent death to Mrs. Jersey. But you read about that in the papers."

Ireland nodded. "I did," he said; "and I also saw that you were in the house when Mrs. Jersey was murdered. You were a witness."

"I can tell you about that. I----"

"There is no need to tell me. I have not the time." Ireland looked at his watch. "In ten minutes I leave for my walk."

George remonstrated. "But this is so important."

"Not so important as my health. I can give you only the ten minutes, George. This Miss Bull called to ask me about the lease of the house to Mrs. Jersey. I knew nothing about that. When Lockwood died I sold the house to Lord Derrington----"

"What--to my grandfather?"

"Yes. But had I known he was the purchaser I should not have let him have it. He bought it through an agent. Since then I heard nothing more about the house. I did not even know it was a boarding-establishment until it appeared as such in the papers the other day. I wondered what you were doing at the inquest----"

"I can explain."

Ireland held up his hand. "I need no explanation. I know that Mrs. Jersey was really Eliza Stokes. I gathered that from the description given by Miss Bull in the course of our conversation. My suspicions were aroused by the fact that Lord Derrington had leased the Amelia Square house to Mrs. Jersey."

"Why did he do that?" George spoke more to himself than to Ireland.

"Well," said the old man rising, "it is my belief that Lord Derrington knows there was a marriage, and assisted Mrs. Jersey so that she should hold her tongue. Now there is no more time. I must go out," and Ireland walked to the door.

George followed, knowing it was vain to attempt to turn him from his purpose, as the old man was most obstinate. "One moment," he said, on the door-step; "this blue domino connected with my father's murder--was she never traced?"

"No. There was no means of tracing her. Except that she wore a piece of holly she carried no distinguishing mark."

"Holly!" cried George, astounded. "Yellow holly?"

"Yes. I don't know how you come to mention it, but the holly worn by the blue domino with whom your father went away had yellow berries."