But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. I’d take it— forgive me if I seem a little urgent—as a sort of proof of friendliness. Lord Charvill’s sense of justice would not, however, allow him to repudiate his granddaughter, if indeed this female proved to be the infant lost to the family so many years ago. “Your name and address were upon an envelope found in the pocket of an Englishman who was brought here late last night suffering from serious injuries,” he said in a dry official tone. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. “I will make it possible,” he cried. Aren’t I asking—asking plainly now?. “It is your sister and her husband,” he said.
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