atly!" he said. "Some one or
other will be sure to know whither the woman has gone. She may have had
some monetary trouble, and so have desired to keep her whereabouts a
secret; but some one or other will know. If she is in the world I will
find her. How foolish I am to be so terribly frightened! If the child
is living what have I to fear?"

But, though his words were brave and courageous, his hands trembled, and
the rector saw signs of great agitation. 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. "I myself placed in his
charge all the papers necessary for the identification of my little
daughter."

"May I ask of what they consisted?" said the rector.

"Certainly--the certificate of my marriage, of my beloved wife's death,
of my little daughter's birth, and an agreement between the doctor and
myself as to the sum that was to be paid to him yearly while he had
charge of my child."

"Then the doctor knew your name, title, and address?"

"Yes; I had no motive in keeping them secret, save that I did not wish
my marriage to be known to my father until I myself could tell him--and
I know how fast such news travels. I remember distinctly where he placed
the papers. I watched him."

"Where was it?" asked Mr. Darnley. "For I certainly have seen nothing of
them."

"In a small oaken box with brass clasps, which stood on a sideboard. I
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