He merely waited with
uplifted eyebrows.
"Not the least idea," his visitor repeated, still smiling. "But at the
same time I fancy that before I leave you I shall find myself
explaining, or endeavouring to explain, not why I am here, but why I
have not visited you before. What do you think of that?"
"I find it," Brooks answered, "enigmatic but interesting."
"Exactly. Well, I hate talking, so my explanation will not be a tedious
one. Your name is Kingston Brooks."
"Yes."
"Your mother's name was Dorothy Kenneir. She was, before her marriage,
the matron of a home in the East End of London, and a lady devoted to
philanthropic work. Your father was a police-court missionary."
Brooks was leaning a little forward in his chair. These things were
true enough. Who was his visitor?
"Your father, through over-devotion to the philanthropic works in which
he was engaged, lost his reason temporarily, and on his partial recovery
I understand that the doctors considered him still to be mentally in a
very weak state. They ordered him a sea voyage. He left England on the
Corinthia fifteen years ago, and I believe that you heard nothing more
of him until you received the news of his death--probably ten years
back.
Pages:
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38