And I determined, in
spite of the hour, just to inquire. You must understand, Mr Lawford,
there was something that I rather particularly wanted to say to you. But there!—you’re looking sadly, sadly ill; and,’ she glanced round a
little inquisitively, ‘I think my story had better wait for a more
convenient occasion.’

‘Not at all, Miss Sinnet; please not,’ Lawford assured her, ‘really. I
have been ill, but I’m now practically quite myself again. My wife and
daughter have gone away for a few days; and I follow to-morrow, so if
you’ll forgive such a very poor welcome, it may be my—my only chance. Do please let me hear.’

The old lady leant back in her chair, placed her hands on its arms and
softly panted, while out of the rather broad serenity of her face she
sat blinking up at her companion as if after a long talk, instead of at
the beginning of one. ‘No,’ she repeated reflectively, ‘I don’t like
your looks at all; yet here we are, enjoying beautiful autumn weather,
Mr Lawford, why not make use of it?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Lawford, ‘I do. I have been making tremendous use of
it.’

Her eyelid flickered at his candid glance. ‘And does your business
permit of much walking?’

‘Well, I’ve been malingering these last few days idling at home; but I
am usually more or less my own man, Miss Sinnet. I walk a little.’

‘H’m, but not much in my direction, Mr Lawford?’ she quizzed him. ‘All horrible indolence, Miss Sinnet. But I often—often think of you;
and especially just lately.’

‘Well, now,’ she wriggled round her head to get a better view of him
rather stiffly seated on his chair, ‘that’s very peculiar; because I
too have been thinking lately a great deal of you. And yet—I fancy I
shall succeed in mystifying you presently—not precisely of you, but of
somebody else!’

‘You do mystify me—“somebody else”!’ he replied gallantly. ‘And that is
the story, I suppose?’

‘That’s the story,’ repeated Miss Sinnet with some little triumph. ‘Now, let me see; it was on Saturday last—yes, Saturday evening; a
wonderful sunset; Bewley Heath.’

‘Oh yes; my daughter’s favourite walk.’

‘And your daughter’s age now?’

‘She’s nearly sixteen; Alice, you know.’

‘Ah, yes, Alice; to be sure. It _is_ a beautiful walk, and if fine, I
generally take mine there too. It’s near; there’s shade; it’s very
little frequented; and I can wander and muse undisturbed. And that I
think is pretty well all that an old woman like me is fit for, Mr
Lawford. “Nearly sixteen!” Is it possible? Dear, dear me? But let me
get on. On my way home from the Heath, you may be aware, before one
reaches the road again, there’s a somewhat steep ascent. I haven’t the
strength I had, and whether I’m fatigued or not, I have always made it
a rule to rest awhile on a most convenient little seat at the summit,
admire the view—what I can see of it—and then make my way quietly,
quietly home. On Saturday, however, and it most rarely occurs—once, I
remember, when a very civil nursemaid was sitting with two charmingly
behaved little children in the sunshine, and I heard they were my old
friend Major Loder’s _son’s_ children—on Saturday, as I was saying, my
own particular little haunt was already occupied.’ She glanced back at
him from out of her thoughts, as it were. ‘By a gentleman. I say,
gentleman; though I must confess that his conduct—perhaps, too, a
little something even in his appearance, somewhat belied the term. Anyhow, gentleman let us call him.’

Lawford, all attention, nodded, and encouragingly smiled. ‘I’m not one of those tiresome, suspicious people, Mr Lawford, who
distrust strangers. I have never been molested, and I have enjoyed many
and many a most interesting, and sometimes instructive, talk with an
individual whom I’ve never seen in my life before, and this side of the
grave perhaps, am never likely to see again.’ She lifted her head with
pursed lips, and gravely yet still flickeringly regarded him once more. ‘Well, I made some trifling remark—the weather, the view, what-not,’
she explained with a little jerk of her shoulder—‘and to my extreme
astonishment he turned and addressed me by name—Miss Sinnet. Unmistakably—Sinnet. Now, perhaps, and very rightly, you won’t
considered _that_ a very peculiar thing to do? But you will recollect,
Mr Lawford, that I had been sitting there a considerable time. Surely,
now, if you had recognised my face you would have addressed me at
once?’

‘Was he, do you think, Miss Sinnet, a little uncertain, perhaps?’

‘Never mind, never mind; let me get on with my story first. The next
thing my gentleman does is more mysterious still. His whole manner was
a little peculiar, perhaps—a certain restlessness, what, in fact, one
might be almost tempted to call a certain furtiveness of behaviour. Never mind. What he does next is to ask me a riddle! Perhaps you won’t
think _that_ was peculiar either?’

‘What was the riddle?’ smiled Lawford. ‘Why, to be sure, to guess his name! Simply guided, so I surmised, by
some very faint resemblance in his face to his _mother_, who was, he
assured me, an old schoolfellow of mine at _Brighton_. I thought and
thought. I confess the adventure was beginning to be a little
perplexing. But of course, very, very few of my old schoolfellows
remain distinctly in my memory now; and I fear _that_ grows more
treacherous the longer I live. Their faces as girls are clear enough. But later in life most of them drifted out of sight—many, alas, are
dead; and, well, at last I narrowed my man down to one. And who now, do
you suppose _that_ was?’

Lawford sustained an expression of abysmal mystification. ‘Do tell
me—who?’

‘Your own poor dear mother, Mr Lawford.’

‘_He_ said so?’

‘No, no,’ said the old lady, with some vexation, closing her eyes. ‘_I_
said so. He asked me to guess. And I guessed Mary Lawford; now do you
see?’

‘Yes, yes. But _was_ he like her, Miss Sinnet? That was really very,
very extraordinary. Did you see _any_ likeness in his face?’

Miss Sinnet very deliberately took her spectacles out of their case
again. ‘Now, see here, sir; this is being practical, isn’t it? I’m just
going to take a leisurely glance at yours. But you mustn’t let me
forget the time. You must look after the time for me.’

‘It’s about a quarter to ten,’ said Lawford, having glanced first at
the stopped clock on the chimney-piece and then at his watch. He then
sat quite still and endeavoured to sit at ease, while the old lady
lifted her bonneted head and ever so gravely and benignly surveyed him. ‘H’m,’ she said at last. ‘There’s no mistaking _you_. It’s Mary’s chin,
and Mary’s brow—with just a little something, perhaps, of her dreamy
eye. But you haven’t all her looks, Mr Lawford, by any manner of means. She was a very beautiful girl, and so vivacious, so fanciful—it was, I
suppose the foreign strain showing itself. Even marriage did not quite
succeed in spoiling her.’

‘The foreign strain?’ Lawford glanced with a kind of fleeting fixity at
the quiet old figure.