“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 remember it as though it were yesterday.”

“I have seen no such box,” said the rector.  “Our wisest plan will be to go at once to the house where his cousin, Mr. Grey, resides, and see if the article is in his possession.  I am quite sure, though, that he would have mentioned it if he had seen it.”

Without a minute’s delay they drove at once to the house, and found Mr. Grey at home.  He was surprised when he heard the name and rank of his visitor, and above all when he understood his errand.

“A small oaken box with brass clasps?” he said.  “No; I have nothing of the kind in my possession; but, if your lordship will wait, I will have a search made at once.”

Every drawer, desk, and recess were examined in vain.  There was no trace of either the box or the papers.

“I have an inventory of everything the doctor’s house contained—­it was taken the day after his death,” said Mr. Grey; “we can look through that.”

Item after item was most carefully perused.  The list contained no mention of a small oaken box.  It was quite plain that box and papers had both disappeared.

“Could the doctor have given them into Mrs. Dornham’s charge?” asked the earl.

“No,” replied the rector—­“I should say certainly not.  I am quite sure that Mrs. Dornham did not even know the child’s surname.  I remember once asking her about it; she said it was a long name, and that she could never remember it.  If she had had the papers, she would have read them.  I cannot think she holds them.”