“Yes:  I did.  One of the girls—­it was Magdalen—­mentioned the post-mark; some place in America.  It all comes back to me, Mr. Pendril.  Mrs. Vanstone looked excited and anxious, the moment she heard the place named.  They went to London together the next day; they explained nothing to their daughters, nothing to me.  Mrs. Vanstone said the journey was for family affairs.  I suspected something wrong; I couldn’t tell what.  Mrs. Vanstone wrote to me from London, saying that her object was to consult a physician on the state of her health, and not to alarm her daughters by telling them.  Something in the letter rather hurt me at the time.  I thought there might be some other motive that she was keeping from me.  Did I do her wrong?”

“You did her no wrong.  There was a motive which she was keeping from you.  In revealing that motive, I reveal the painful secret which brings me to this house.  All that I could do to prepare you, I have done.  Let me now tell the truth in the plainest and fewest words.  When Mr. and Mrs. Vanstone left Combe-Raven, in the March of the present year—­”

Before he could complete the sentence, a sudden movement of Miss Garth’s interrupted him.  She started violently, and looked round toward the window.  “Only the wind among the leaves,” she said, faintly.  “My nerves are so shaken, the least thing startles me.  Speak out, for God’s sake!  When Mr. and Mrs. Vanstone left this house, tell me in plain words, why did they go to London?”

In plain words, Mr. Pendril told her: 

“They went to London to be married.”

With that answer he placed a slip of paper on the table.  It was the marriage certificate of the dead parents, and the date it bore was March the twentieth, eighteen hundred and forty-six.

Miss Garth neither moved nor spoke.  The certificate lay beneath her unnoticed.  She sat with her eyes rooted on the lawyer’s face; her mind stunned, her senses helpless.  He saw that all his efforts to break the shock of the discovery had been efforts made in vain; he felt the vital importance of rousing her, and firmly and distinctly repeated the fatal words.

“They went to London to be married,” he said.  “Try to rouse yourself:  try to realize the plain fact first:  the explanation shall come afterward.  Miss Garth, I speak the miserable truth!  In the spring of this year they left home; they lived in London for a fortnight, in the strictest retirement; they were married by license at the end of that time.  There is a copy of the certificate, which I myself obtained on Monday last.  Read the date of the marriage for yourself.  It is Friday, the twentieth of March—­the March of this present year.”

As he pointed to the certificate, that faint breath of air among the shrubs beneath the window, which had startled Miss Garth, stirred the leaves once more.  He heard it himself this time, and turned his face, so as to let the breeze play upon it.  No breeze came; no breath of air that was strong enough for him to feel, floated into the room.