She left us about nine months after Elma." "I should esteem it a great favor if you would give me that young lady's address," I said, whereupon she unlocked a drawer in her writing-table and took therefrom a thick, leather-bound book which she consulted for a few minutes, at last exclaiming: "Yes, here it is--'Lydia Moreton, daughter of Sir Hamilton Moreton, K.C.M.G., Whiston Grange, Doncaster.'" And she scribbled it in pencil upon an envelope, and handing it to me, said: "Elma Heath was, I fear, somewhat neglected by her parents.

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.