“Pooh!” I answered; “do you take us for idiots?  This,” I added with some sternness, “is either a ridiculous misapprehension or an attempt at imposture, and I am very careless which it may be.”

“You are mistaken, sir,” rejoined the clergyman mildly.  “This young woman was certainly married by me at Swindon church, Wilts, to a gentleman of the name of Henry Thorneycroft, who, it appears from the newspapers, confirmed by this lady, was no other than Mr. Henry Allerton.  This marriage, we find, took place six months previously to that contracted with Rosamond Stewart.  I have further to say that this young woman, Maria Emsbury, is a very respectable person, and that her marriage-portion, of a little more than eight hundred pounds, was given to her husband, whom she has only seen thrice since her marriage, to support himself till the death of his reputed father, constantly asserted by him to be imminent.”

“A story very smoothly told, and I have no doubt in your opinion quite satisfactory; but there is one slight matter which I fancy you will find somewhat difficult of proof—­I mean the identity of Maria Emsbury’s husband with the son or nephew of the late Mr. Thorneycroft.”

“He always said he was the son of the rich East Indian, Mr. Thorneycroft,” said the young woman with a hysterical sob; “and here,” she added, “is his picture in his wedding-dress—­that of an officer of the Gloucestershire Yeomanry.  He gave it me the day before the wedding.”

I almost snatched the portrait.  Sure enough it was a miniature of Henry Allerton—­there could be no doubt about that.

Mr. Flint, who had been busy with some papers, here approached and glanced at the miniature.

I was utterly confounded, and my partner, I saw, was equally dismayed; and no wonder, entertaining as we both did the highest respect and admiration for the high-minded and beautiful daughter of Major Stewart.

The Widow Thorneycroft’s exultation was exuberant.

“As this only legal marriage,” said she, “has been blessed with no issue, I am of course, as you must be aware, the legitimate heiress-at-law, as my deceased husband’s nearest blood-relative.  I shall, however,” she added, “take care to amply provide for my widowed niece-in-law.”

The young woman made a profound rustic courtesy, and tears of unaffected gratitude, I observed, filled her eyes.

The game was not, however, to be quite so easily surrendered as they appeared to imagine.  “Tut! tut!” exclaimed Mr. Flint bluntly—­“this may be mere practice.  Who knows how the portrait has been obtained?”

The girl’s eyes flashed with honest anger.  There was no practice about her I felt assured.  “Here are other proofs:  My husband’s signet-ring, left accidentally, I think, with me, and two letters which I from curiosity took out of his coat-pocket—­the day, I am pretty sure it was, after we were married.”

“If this cumulative circumstantial evidence does not convince you, gentlemen,” added the Rev. Mr. Wishart, “I have direct personal testimony to offer.  You know Mr. Angerstein of Bath?”