"You will be surprised to hear, sir, that she is supposed to be the daughter of the old preacher, Lyon, in Malthouse Yard."
"Good God! How can that be?" said Harold. At once, the first occasion on which he had seen Esther rose in his memory—the little dark parlour—the graceful girl in blue, with the surprisingly distinguished manners and appearance.
"In this way. Old Lyon, by some strange means or other, married Bycliffe's widow when this girl was a baby. And the preacher didn't want the girl to know that he was not her real father: he told me that himself. But she is the image of BycHffe, whom I knew well—an uncommonly fine woman—steps like a queen."
"I have seen her," said Harold, more than ever glad to have purchased this knowledge. "But now, go on."
Christian proceeded to tell all he knew, including his conversation with Jermyn, except so far as it had an unpleasant relation to himself.
"Then," said Harold, as the details seemed to have come to a close, "you believe that Miss Lyon and her supposed father are at present unaware of the claims that might be urged for her on the strength of her birth?"
