Bewildered, and suspecting he hardly knew what, Captain Dalston, in defiance of young Grainger’s oft-iterated injunctions, determined to call at his father’s residence, which he had always understood to be in Leadenhall Street.  No such name was, however, known there; and an examination, to which he was advised, of the “Commercial Directory” failed to discover the whereabout of the pretended London merchant.  Heart-sick and spirit-wearied, Captain Dalston returned home only to die.  A violent cold, caught by imprudently riding in such bitter weather as it then was, on the outside of the coach, aggravated by distress of mind, brought his already enfeebled frame to the grave in less than two months after his arrival in Cumberland.  He left his daughters utterly unprovided for, except by the legal claim which the eldest possessed on a man who, he feared, would turn out to be a worthless impostor.  The penalty he paid for consenting to so imprudent a marriage was indeed a heavy and bitter one.  Months passed away, and still no tidings of Violet’s husband reached the sisters’ sad and solitary home.  At length, stimulated by apprehensions of approaching destitution—­whose foot was already on the threshold—­and desirous of gratifying a whim of Emily’s, Violet consented to visit the neighborhood of Compton Castle (the seat, her sister had ascertained, of the “celebrated sporting baronet,” as the porter called him) on their way to London, where they had relatives who, though not rich, might possibly be able to assist them in obtaining some decent means of maintenance.  They alighted at the “Compton Arms,” and the first object which met the astonished gaze of the sisters as they entered the principal sitting-room of the inn, was a full-length portrait of Violet’s husband, in the exact sporting-dress described to them by their father.  An ivory tablet attached to the lower part of the frame informed the gazer that the picture was a copy, by permission, of the celebrated portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence, of Sir Harry Compton, Baronet.  They were confounded, overwhelmed, bewildered.  Sir Harry, they found, had been killed about eight months previously in a steeple-chase; and the castle and estates had passed, in default of direct issue, to a distant relative, Lord Emsdale.  Their story was soon bruited about; and, in the opinion of many persons, was confirmed beyond reasonable question by the extraordinary likeness they saw or fancied between Violet’s son and the deceased baronet.  Amongst others, Sir Jasper Thornely was a firm believer in the identity of Henry Grainger and Sir Harry Compton; but unfortunately, beyond the assertion of the sisters that the portrait of Sir Harry was young Grainger’s portrait, the real or imaginary likeness of the child to his reputed father, and some score of letters addressed to Violet by her husband, which Sir Jasper persisted were in Sir Harry’s handwriting, though few others did (the hand, I saw at a glance, was a disguised one), not one tittle of evidence had he been able to procure for love or money.  As a last resource, he had consigned the case to me, and the vulpine sagacity of a London attorney.