Randolph thought of the strange body at the wharf, of the coroner’s vague verdict, and was unconvinced.  “But,” he said impulsively, “there was a child.”  He checked himself as he remembered this was one of Miss Avondale’s confidences to him.

“Ah—­Miss Avondale has spoken of a child?” said Mr. Dingwall dryly.

“I saw her with one which she said was Captain Dornton’s, which had been left in her care after the death of his wife,” said Randolph in hurried explanation.

“John Dornton had no wife,” said Mr. Dingwall severely.  “The boy is a natural son.  Captain John lived a wild, rough, and—­er—­an eccentric life.”

“I thought—­I understood from Miss Avondale that he was married,” stammered the young man.

“In your rather slight acquaintance with that young lady I should imagine she would have had some delicacy in telling you otherwise,” returned Mr. Dingwall primly.

Randolph felt the truth of this, and was momentarily embarrassed.  Yet he lingered.

“Has Miss Avondale known of this discovery long?” he asked.

“About two weeks, I should say,” returned Mr. Dingwall.  “She was of some service to Sir William in getting up certain proofs he required.”

It was three weeks since she had seen Randolph, yet it would have been easy for her to communicate the news to him.  In these three weeks his romance of their common interest in his benefactor—­even his own dream of ever seeing him again—­had been utterly dispelled.

It was in no social humor that he reached Dingwall’s house the next evening.  Yet he knew the difficulty of taking an aggressive attitude toward his previous idol or of inviting a full explanation from her then.

The guests, with the exception of himself and Miss Avondale, were all English.  She, self-possessed and charming in evening dress, nodded to him with her usual mature patronage, but did not evince the least desire to seek him for any confidential aside.  He noticed the undoubted resemblance of Sir William Dornton to his missing benefactor, and yet it produced a singular repulsion in him, rather than any sympathetic predilection.  At table he found that Miss Avondale was separated from him, being seated beside the distinguished guest, while he was placed next to the young lady he had taken down—­a Miss Eversleigh, the cousin of Sir William.  She was tall, and Randolph’s first impression of her was that she was stiff and constrained—­an impression he quickly corrected at the sound of her voice, her frank ingenuousness, and her unmistakable youth.  In the habit of being crushed by Miss Avondale’s unrelenting superiority, he found himself apparently growing up beside this tall English girl, who had the naivete of a child.  After a few commonplaces she suddenly turned her gray eyes on his, and said,—­

“Didn’t you like Jack?  I hope you did.  Oh, say you did—­do!”

“You mean Captain John Dornton?” said Randolph, a little confused.