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Aunt Adelaide’s little son must have died long ago too, since he was never spoken of either. At the time of old Lord Trent’s death Pamela was only nine years old, and even when she was older it had not been considered necessary to tell her of the advertisements and enquiries that were made for Antoine Ste. Croix. There had been no response from the boy or his father, and there was no doubt whatever in the minds of the lawyers and the members of the Trent family that the male heir to their house had died in babyhood. Pamela’s rights seemed firmly established. No one thought of questioning them; and “poor Adelaide’s unfortunate marriage” was almost forgotten—certainly the name Ste. Croix had sunk into oblivion, so that Tony’s name with its different pronunciation had aroused no sleeping memories in either Archie Brackenridge or any other relation of the Trents he had chanced to meet in London. Strangely enough, not for one instant did Pamela doubt the truth of Tony’s sudden and startling assertion. Her world was cracking about her; at any moment she knew she would awake to find herself standing among its ruins, yet from the first she did not doubt the authority of the devastating hand.

A voice broke in upon her—Aunt Sophia’s voice.

“Is that you, Pamela?”

“Yes.” Pamela knew suddenly that she could not even try to sleep until she had spoken. She closed the door behind her and advanced to the bedside. The room was very dimly lighted, but she was able to make out the extreme unbecomingness of Aunt Sophia’s night coiffure, and, for the hundredth time, to wonder at it.

“It’s very late—you will be tired out. Who was there? I hear Major Leffingham was———”

“Aunt Sophia, what made you—what made everyone think that Aunt Adelaide’s son was dead?

“What do you mean, my dear child?”