struck by some sudden thought, his brows met, and he remained silent and
musing a few moments; then, observing Leonard's eyes fixed on him
earnestly, he replied to the question,

"No doubt he saw her; she was brought up at Lady Lansmere's. Did he not
tell you so?"

"No." A vague suspicion here darted through Leonard's mind, but as
suddenly vanished. His father! Impossible. His father must have
deliberately wronged the dead mother. And was Harley L'Estrange a man
capable of such wrong? And had he been Harley's son, would not Harley
have guessed it at once, and so guessing, have owned and claimed him?
Besides, Lord L'Estrange looked so young,--old enough to be Leonard's
father!--he could not entertain the idea. He roused himself and said,
falteringly,

"You told me you did not know by what name I should call my father."

"And I told you the truth, to the best of my belief."

"By your honour, sir?"

"By my honour, I do not know it."

There was now a long silence. The carriage had long left London, and was
on a high road somewhat lonelier, and more free from houses than most of
those which form the entrances to the huge city. Leonard gazed wistfully
from the window, and the objects that met his eyes gradually seemed to
appeal to his memory. Yes! it was the road by which he had first
approached the metropolis, hand in hand with Helen--and hope so busy at