Chapter 21

THE PLOT UNRAVELS ITSELF

As Jack went on unfolding that strange tale of fraud and heartless
wrong, my interest every moment grew more and more absorbing. But I
can't recall it now exactly as Jack told me it. I can only give you
the substance of that terrible story.

When Richard Wharton first learned of his wife's second marriage
during his own lifetime to that wicked wretch who had ousted and
supplanted him, he believed also, on the strength of Vivian
Callingham's pretences, that his own daughter had died in her
babyhood in Australia. He fancied, therefore, that no person of his
kin remained alive at all, and that he might proceed to denounce and
punish Vivian Callingham. With that object in view, he tramped down
all the way from London to Torquay, to make himself known to his
wife's relations, the Moores, and to their cousin, Courtenay Ivor of
Babbicombe--my Jack, as I called him. For various reasons of his
own, he called first on Jack, and proceeded to detail to him this
terrible family story.

At first hearing, Jack could hardly believe such a tale was true--of
his Una's father, as he still thought Vivian Callingham. But a
strange chance happened to reveal a still further complication. It
came out in this way. I had given Jack a recent photograph of myself
in fancy dress, which hung up over his mantelpiece. As the
weather-worn visitor's eye fell on the picture, he started and grew
pale.

"Why, that's her!" he cried with a sudden gasp. "That's my
daughter--Mary Wharton!"

Well, naturally enough Jack thought, to begin with, this was a mere
mistake on his strange visitor's part.

"That's her half-sister," he said, "Una Callingham--your wife's
child by her second marriage. She may be like her, no doubt, as
half-sisters often are. But Mary Wharton, I know, died some eighteen
years ago or so, when Una was quite a baby, I believe. I've heard
all about it, because, don't you see, I'm engaged to Una."

The poor wreck of a clergyman, however, shook his head with profound
conviction. He knew better than that.

"Oh no," he said decisively: "that's my child, Mary Wharton. Even
after all these years, I couldn't possibly be mistaken. Blood is
thicker than water: I'd know her among ten thousand. She'd be just
that age now, too. I see the creature's vile plot. His daughter died
young, and he's palmed off my Mary as his own child, to keep her
money in his hands. But never mind the money. Thank Heaven, she's
alive! That's her! That's my Mary!"

The plot seemed too diabolical and too improbable for anybody to
believe. Jack could hardly think it possible when his new friend
told him. But the stranger