J. S. Fletcher

“ They came back in spring, and Martin Byfield brought a wife home with him."
"This present Mrs. Byfield?" asked Brixey, who was making careful mental notes. "The one I've seen?"
"The same, sir," answered Brackett. "Brought her home, a bride. A rare handsome woman she was, too; a woman, I should say of twenty-eight or thirty—maybe a year or two more." ”

“ There were then two Byfields—Martin Byfield and Peter Byfield, his younger brother, this young lady's father. They both had money—a certain amount, you understand.
"Now, Martin Byfield went into trade with his, and he made a rare lot more. Peter, I'm sorry to say, lived on his capital, and, to tell the plain truth, he got through everything before he died. It just about lasted out. Missie here won't mind me saying that her poor father was his own worst enemy."
"Say whatever you like, Mr. Brackett," said Georgina. "You know all the facts." ”

“ Brixey," said the landlord. "She thinks what you seem to think—that your uncle may have known Mrs. Byfield at some time."
Brixey handed Georgina a chair and motioned Brackett to take another.
"Look here," he said. "Between the three of us, I've already got some suspicion about Mrs. Byfield, consequent, of course, on what Mrs. Crosse said last night, and of what I observed in Mrs. Byfield herself. Now, then, who is, or was, Mrs. Byfield? You see, my uncle had a big practice as a solicitor. He may have had dealings with her, and have recognised her. ”