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She remained
here for five years, and had no holidays like the other girls. Her
uncle, the Baron, came to see her several times, but on each occasion
after he had left I found her crying in secret. He was mean and unkind
to her. Now that I recollect, I remember that Lydia had said she had
received a letter from her, therefore she might be able to give you some
information."
And with that I took my leave, thanking her, and returned to London.
Could Lydia Moreton furnish any information? If so, I might find this
girl whose photograph had aroused the irate jealousy of the mysterious
unknown.
The ten o'clock Edinburgh express from King's Cross next morning took me
up to Doncaster, and hiring a musty old fly at the station, I drove
three miles out of the town on the Rotherham Road, finding Whiston
Grange to be a fine old Elizabethan mansion in the center of a great
park, with tall old twisted chimneys, and beautifully-kept gardens.
When I descended at the door and rang, the footman was not aware whether
Miss Lydia was in.


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