“I keep the name of the writer till the last,” answered Obenreizer, “and I proceed to my second proof—­a mere slip of paper this time, as you see.  Memorandum given to the Swiss lawyer, who drew the documents referred to in the letter I have just read, expressed as follows:—­’Adopted from the Foundling Hospital of England, 3d March, 1836, a male infant, called, in the Institution, Walter Wilding.  Person appearing on the register, as adopting the child, Mrs. Jane Anne Miller, widow, acting in this matter for her married sister, domiciled in Switzerland.’  Patience!” resumed Obenreizer, as Vendale, breaking loose from Bintrey, started to his feet.  “I shall not keep the name concealed much longer.  Two more little slips of paper, and I have done.  Third proof!  Certificate of Doctor Ganz, still living in practice at Neuchatel, dated July, 1838.  The doctor certifies (you shall read it for yourselves directly), first, that he attended the adopted child in its infant maladies; second, that, three months before the date of the certificate, the gentleman adopting the child as his son died; third, that on the date of the certificate, his widow and her maid, taking the adopted child with them, left Neuchatel on their return to England.  One more link now added to this, and my chain of evidence is complete.  The maid remained with her mistress till her mistress’s death, only a few years since.  The maid can swear to the identity of the adopted infant, from his childhood to his youth—­from his youth to his manhood, as he is now.  There is her address in England—­and there, Mr. Vendale, is the fourth, and final proof!”

“Why do you address yourself to me?” said Vendale, as Obenreizer threw the written address on the table.

Obenreizer turned on him, in a sudden frenzy of triumph.

“Because you are the man!  If my niece marries you, she marries a bastard, brought up by public charity.  If my niece marries you, she marries an impostor, without name or lineage, disguised in the character of a gentleman of rank and family.”

“Bravo!” cried Bintrey.  “Admirably put, Mr. Obenreizer!  It only wants one word more to complete it.  She marries—­thanks entirely to your exertions—­a man who inherits a handsome fortune, and a man whose origin will make him prouder than ever of his peasant-wife.  George Vendale, as brother-executors, let us congratulate each other!  Our dear dead friend’s last wish on earth is accomplished.  We have found the lost Walter Wilding.  As Mr. Obenreizer said just now—­you are the man!”

The words passed by Vendale unheeded.  For the moment he was conscious of but one sensation; he heard but one voice.  Marguerite’s hand was clasping his.  Marguerite’s voice was whispering to him: 

“I never loved you, George, as I love you now!”

THE CURTAIN FALLS

May-day.  There is merry-making in Cripple Corner, the chimneys smoke, the patriarchal dining-hall is hung with garlands, and Mrs. Goldstraw, the respected housekeeper, is very busy.  For, on this bright morning the young master of Cripple Corner is married to its young mistress, far away:  to wit, in the little town of Brieg, in Switzerland, lying at the foot of the Simplon Pass where she saved his life.