CHAPTER VII.

A STARTLING REVELATION.

“It seems to me, Hawbury,” said Dacres, after a period of thoughtful silence—­“it seems to me that when you talk of people having their heads turned, you yourself comprehend the full meaning of that sensation?”

“Somewhat.”

“You knocked under at once, of course, to your Ethel?”

“Yes.”

“And feel the same way toward her yet?”

“Yes.”

“Hit hard?”

“Yes; and that’s what I’m coming to.  The fact is, my whole business in life for the last year has been to find her out.”

“You haven’t dawdled so much, then, as people suppose?”

“No; that’s all very well to throw people off a fellow’s scent; but you know me well enough, Dacres; and we didn’t dawdle much in South America, did we?”

“That’s true, my boy; but as to this lady, what is it that makes it so hard for you to find her?  In the first place, is she an American?”

“Oh no.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, accent, manner, tone, idiom, and a hundred other things.  Why, of course, you know as well as I that an American lady is as different from an English as a French or a German lady is.  They may be all equally ladies, but each nation has its own peculiarities.”

“Is she Canadian?”

“Possibly.  It is not always easy to tell a Canadian lady from an English.  They imitate us out there a good deal.  I could tell in the majority of cases, but there are many who can not be distinguished from us very easily.  And Ethel may be one.”

“Why mayn’t she be English?”

“She may be.  It’s impossible to perceive any difference.”

“Have you ever made any inquiries about her in England?”

“No; I’ve not been in England much, and from the way she talked to me I concluded that her home was in Canada.”

“Was her father an Englishman?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Couldn’t you find out?”

“No.  You see he had but recently moved to Montreal, like Willoughby; and I could not find any people who were acquainted with him.”

“He may have been English all the time.”

“Yes.”

“And she too.”

“By Jove!”

“And she may be in England now.”

Hawbury started to his feet, and stared in silence at his friend for several minutes.

“By Jove!” he cried; “if I thought that, I swear I’d start for home this evening, and hunt about every where for the representatives of the Orne family.  But no—­surely it can’t be possible.”

“Were you in London last season?”

“No.”

“Well, how do you know but that she was there?”

“By Jove!”

“And the belle of the season, too?”

“She would be if she were there, by Jove!”

“Yes, if there wasn’t another present that I wot of.”