“Yes—­it cannot be denied.  Let me say also—­for it is best to look at the subject on its darkest side—­I find, on looking over my letters, that my husband was staying with Mr. Angerstein at the time stated.  He was also at that period in the Gloucestershire Yeomanry.  I gave William Martin, but the other day, a suit of his regimentals very little the worse for wear.”

“You forget to state, Rosamond,” said Miss Stewart, who was sitting beside her niece, “that Martin, who was with his young master at Bath, is willing to make oath that no such marriage took place as asserted, at Swindon church.”

“That alone would, I fear, my good madam, very little avail.  Can I see William Martin?”

“Certainly.”  The bell was rung, and the necessary order given.

“This Martin is much changed for the better, I hear?”

“O yes, entirely so,” said Miss Stewart.  “He is also exceedingly attached to us all, the children especially; and his grief and anger, when informed of what had occurred, thoroughly attest his faithfulness and sincerity.”

Martin entered, and was, I thought, somewhat confused by my apparently unexpected presence.  A look at his face and head dissipated a half-suspicion that had arisen in both Flint’s mind and my own.

I asked him a few questions relative to the sojourn of his master at Bath, and then said, “I wish you to go with me and Bee this Maria Emsbury.”

As I spoke, something seemed to attract Martin’s attention in the street, and suddenly turning round, his arm swept a silver pastil-stand off the table.  He stooped down to gather up the dispersed pastils, and as he did so, said, in answer to my request, “that he had not the slightest objection to do so.”

“That being the case, we will set off at once, as she and her friends are probably at the office by this time.  They are desirous of settling the matter off-hand,” I added with a smile, addressing Mrs. Allerton, “and avoiding, if possible, the delays and uncertainties of the law.”

As I anticipated, the formidable trio were with Mr. Flint.  I introduced Martin, and as I did so, watched, with an anxiety I could hardly have given a reason for, the effect of his appearance upon the young woman.  I observed nothing.  He was evidently an utter stranger to her, although, from the involuntary flush which crossed his features, it occurred to me that he was in some way an accomplice with his deceased master in the cruel and infamous crime which had, I strongly feared, been perpetrated.

“Was this person present at your marriage?” I asked.

“Certainly not.  But I think—­now I look at him—­that I have seen him somewhere—­about Swindon, it must have been.”

William Martin mumbled out that he had never been in Swindon; neither, he was sure, had his master.

“What is that?” said the girl, looking sharply up, and suddenly coloring—­“What is that?”