“What is it?  Don’t keep me waiting.”

“I have found a grand-daughter of your brother Joseph Tomalin.”

The listener drew a deep, tremulous sigh.

“Can’t you go on?” she exclaimed, thickly, just as the lawyer was resuming.

“I’ll tell you how I came upon her track—­”

“I don’t care anything about that!” cried the old lady, with violent irritation. “What is she? Where is she?”

“Miss May Tomalin is twenty-five years old.  Her parents are dead.  She lives with relatives of her mother in the town of Northampton.  She has been well educated, well brought up altogether, and has a little income—­about a hundred a year.”

Again Lady Ogram drew a deep breath.  Her face was hotly flushed; her hands trembled; a great joy shone from the transformed countenance.

“Thank goodness!” broke from her hoarsely.  “Thank goodness!” Then, with sudden alarm, “I suppose you’re making no idiotic mistake?”

“That kind of mistake, Lady Ogram,” responded Mr. Kerchever with a tolerant motion of the eyebrows, “is not quite in my way.  Indeed, I’m not in the habit of making mistakes of any kind.  You may be sure I have taken every precaution before coming here with such news as this.”

“All right!  What are you angry about?  Lawyers and doctors and parsons—­there’s no talking with them, they’re so touchy.  Can’t you go on?  Here’s a girl falls out of the clouds, and I’m to show no curiosity about her!  You drive me crazy with your roundabout nonsense.  Go on, can’t you!”

Mr. Kerchever eyed his client curiously.  He was not offended, for he had known Lady Ogram long, and had received traditions regarding her from a time before he was born; but he could not help being struck just now with her face and manner; they made him uneasy.

“I will tell you everything forthwith,” he resumed, “but I must beg you to control yourself, Lady Ogram.  I do so out of regard for your health.  Emotion is natural, but, now that you know the news is all good, your excellent sense should tranquillise you.  Pray let us talk quietly.”

Lady Ogram glanced at him, but nodded acquiescence.

“I’m as cool as you are.  Talk as much as you like.”

“A few days ago I had occasion to look through the lists of a London University Calendar.  My eye fell on the name Tomalin, and of course I was interested.  May Tomalin matriculated at London three years ago.  I could find no further record of her, but inquiries were easy, and they guided me to Northampton.  There I made the acquaintance of a Mr. Rooke, a manufacturer, in whose house Miss Tomalin is resident, and has been for a good many years; to be precise, since she was nine years old.  Without trouble I discovered the girl’s history.  Her grandfather, Joseph Tomalin, died in Canada forty-seven years ago—­”

“How do you know it was Jo—­my brother?” asked the listener, sharply.