He rang for wine, but Lord
Mountdean could not take it--he could do nothing until he had found his
child.
In few words he told the rector the story of his marriage.
"I thought," he said, "that I could not do better for the little one
than leave her here in the doctor's care."
"You were right," returned the rector; "the poor doctor's love for the
child was talked about everywhere. As for Margaret Dornham, I do not
think, if she had been her own, she could have loved her better.
Whatever else may have gone wrong, take my word for it, there was no
lack of love for the child; she could not have been better cared for--of
that I am quite sure."
"I am glad to hear you say so; that is some comfort. But why did no one
write to me when the doctor died?"
"I do not think he left one shred of paper containing any allusion to
your lordship. All his effects were claimed by some distant cousin, who
now lives in his house. I was asked to look over his papers, but there
was not a private memorandum among them--not one; there was nothing in
fact but receipted bills."
Lord Mountdean looked up.
"There must be some mistake," he observed.
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