look younger than he is now, if it were not for that nasty hair about his face.”
Aunt Winifred seemed to have taken Paul’s mustachios in especial aversion. She resumed:
“Now, George, tell me. What had I better do?”
“It is a very awkward business,” said I, soothingly. “Only suppose that you should be mistaken, what then? If you make any disturbance about the business, you will bring vexation and annoyance on worthy people who have never injured you, and do yourself no good. You say your marriage was secret. Why was that? I presume you were of age.”
“I will tell you.”
Another dry cough.
“The fact was that my step-father, Mr. Jones, had plenty of money, and had promised to leave it to me if I behaved well to him (for his own daughter had married against his will and gone to Australia), and I was afraid to tell him I had married his assistant, for fear he should be angry with me. That was why I kept the marriage secret.”
“Well, aunt,” I said, “my advice to you is, do nothing rashly. I will try and find out, if possible, the antecedents of Señor de Aranda, and then we can make up our minds how to act. I must now leave you, for I have business of importance to attend to.”
“But,” persisted Aunt Winifred, “would it not be better to have him watched by a detective?”
“To what purpose?” I asked. “Is he not staying at the ?”
“True,” replied she. “Well, I will wait to see what you find out.”
I left her, but as I was quitting the house was waylaid by Alice, who lamented the delusion under which her unfortunate aunt laboured. Alice was firmly persuaded that her aunt could never have been married, and imagined her story a fiction from beginning to end. But I knew better. I felt sure that I had found out Paul’s secret, and my compunction was great, at being forced to act a lie to my wife, for was I not aware that Paul Garrett and De Aranda were one and the same? Still, when I reflected upon Clara on the one hand, and Aunt Winifred on the other, my sympathies were all entirely for the former, and I wished to hear from Paul himself how it all happened. I was sure he had not sinned wilfully, and how could I be a party to any plan that would consign that poor, innocent, confiding Clara to shame and disgrace?
I hurried to the hotel. On entering the room where Paid and his wife were, the latter exclaimed:
“Oh, Dr. Milburn? I am so glad you are come! I wanted Pablo to let me send for you. I am sure he is ill. He has not been himself all day.”
“Why, what is the matter?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“You are looking pale and fatigued, yourself, madame,” said I to Clara. “I fear you have tired yourself out to-day. I would suggest your retiring early, and recommend your husband to have a cigar afterwards as a sedative.”
“I will retire now, Dr. Milburn,” said Clara, “and I can leave you, querido Pablo, in Dr. Milburn’s charge. I do feel rather tired, and that is the truth. So good night, Dr. Milburn.”
And at last we were alone, Paul and I.
“You must think I am a great villain,” said Paul.
I hesitated.
“Appearances are strangely against you, I must own.”
“I will tell you how it all happened,” said Paul; “and indeed I have been longing to do so, ever since we met at Monkton Bassett. I know Winifred too well not to be certain that she will not leave a stone unturned to find out the truth, and she will follow me to the end of the world rather than loose her hold of me. I have not wilfully wronged her, as you shall hear.
“I was placed at the age of fourteen as apprentice to Mr. Jones, Winifred’s step-father, to remain with him for four years, with the promise, that after completing my medical studies, I should become his assistant. I had neither father nor mother, and for the first three years my position was as lonely and wretched as could well be imagined. At the end of that time I shot up, and improved in appearance. Miss Winifred began to take notice of me. She was not ill-looking, though she had high cheek-bones and red hair. I was no longer ‘that boy,’ but ‘Mr, Paul,’ and as I had at that time a weakness for sweetmeats and dainties, Miss Winifred daily ministered to my failing with unwearied assiduity. She reigned supreme in the household, and my situation was far different to what it had been. She likewise took charge of my wardrobe, supplying its many deficiencies with such tender forethought, that I became quite attached to her—I mean I felt deeply grateful for her kindness towards me.
“I expected to go to London as soon as I had completed my eighteenth year, but shortly before that time arrived, the bank in which the money had been invested for that especial purpose, broke, and I was left without the means of qualifying myself to become Mr. Jones’s assistant.
“What was I to do?
“Winifred and I held several consultations together on the subject, and the upshot of it all was, that she promised to find money for me to go to London, and I agreed to marry her.
“We were secretly married, and for some time I was not unhappy, though Winifred could scarely bear me out of her sight, but that I excused, imputing it to her excessive fondness for me. But when I mentioned the journey to London, she raved at the idea of our separation, and begged me not to think of it. Necessity, however, is a stern mistress. I pointed out to her that I must either qualify myself for her father’s assistant, or seek my bread elsewhere, and to London I went!
“There I met you, Milburn, and you know whether I spared myself in pursuit of my professional studies, or indulged in any of the gaieties patronised by my companions. You remember