d to accept her statement, or to believe that Laura was other than
Anne Catherick. Count Fosco had visited and prepared him.

At this juncture I returned from South America, and, hearing of the
death of the girl I loved, at once set off to Limmeridge on a sad
pilgrimage to her grave. While I was reading the tragic narrative on the
tombstone, two women approached. Even as the words, "Sacred to the
memory of Laura, Lady Glyde," swam before my eyes, one of them lifted
her veil. It was Laura.

In a poor quarter of London I took up my abode with Laura and Miss
Halcombe, and while my poor Laura slowly recovered her health and
spirits I devoted myself to the support of the little household, and to
unravelling the mystery which surrounded the events I have here
recorded. From Mrs. Clements, who had befriended poor Anne Catherick, I
learnt that Mrs. Catherick had had secret meetings years before with Sir
Percival Glyde in the vestry of the church at Welmingham.

To establish the exact relations between Mrs. Catherick and Sir
Percival, I visited Welmingham, pursued by the baronet's agents. My
interview with Mrs. Catherick satisfied me that Sir Percival was not the
father of Anne, and that their secret meeting in the vestry had
reference to some object other than romance. The contemptuous way in
which Mrs. Catherick spoke of Sir Percival's mother set me thinking. I
visited the vestry where the meetings had taken place, and examining the
register, discovered at the bottom of one of the pages, compressed into
a very small space, the entry of Sir Felix Glyde's marriage with the
mother of Sir Percival. Hearing from the sexton that an old lawyer in
the neighbouring town had a copy of this register, I visited him, and
found that his copy did not contain the entry of this marriage.

Here was the secret at last! Sir Percival was the illegitimate son of
his father, and had forged this entry of his father's marriage in order
to secure the title and estates. Mrs. Catherick was the only person who
knew of the plot. In a fit of ill-temper she had told her daughter Anne
that she possessed a secret that could ruin the baronet. Anne herself
never knew the secret, but foolishly repeated her mother's words to Sir
Percival, and the price of her temerity was incarceration in a private
asylum.

I returned post-haste to Welmingham to secure a copy of the forged
entry. It was night. As I approached the church, a man stopped me,
mistaking me for Sir