ed was so like Checkynshaw."

"What was the name of the other Marguerite?"

"Poulebah."

"Did you make any effort to find the parents of the child you adopted?"

"I did; I found the lodgings they had occupied, and the _concierge_
identified some clothing and the locket which I carried to him. He told
me that the parents of the child were both dead. He only knew that they
were English. I have no doubt now that he was a bad man, and that he
told me what he knew was not true in regard to the child."

"Why so?"

"I think it is probable the Chuckinghams left some property in their
rooms which he desired to keep, and because I have learned from Mr.
Checkynshaw that the house I visited was not the one occupied by him.
The _concierge_ told me two falsehoods--that the clothing and locket
belonged to the child of his lodger, and that she spoke French."

The lawyer twisted the matter about in various ways; but Andre was as
clear as light itself, and he did not materially contradict himself.
Mrs. Checkynshaw was called for the defence; but, to the astonishment
and disgust of the legal gentleman and his employers, she testified, in
the most positive manner, that the elegant young lady in court was
Marguerite Checkynshaw. She had taken care of her as a child, and she
could not be mistaken. Mrs. Wittleworth was put upon the stand, with
the letter announcing the death of Marguerite in her hand; but, poor
woman, all her evidence was against herself. She identified the locket,
and was in the end very sure that the beautiful young lady was her
niece.

Mr. Fitzherbert Wittleworth was utterly disgusted, though he could not
help believing that the young lady was his cousin. Not a doubt was left
in the mind of any person, and of course Mr. Checkynshaw won his case;
but the great man was very far from satisfied with himself, or with the
position in which the trial left him. It was apparent to all the world
that he had attempted to defraud Mrs. Wittleworth out of the block of
stores, and ten years' income upon it; but the banker was not a man to
bend before the storm of popular opinion. He took the trouble to define
his position, and to explain away what was dark and unsatisfactory. He
did not believe his child was dead. He was satisfied that Marguerite
Poulebah was Marguerite Checkynshaw, though he could not find her. The
director of the hospital said the Sisters had taken her, and he was
sure she was living.

Besides, it would have