“I know all about it,” Fontenelle went on. “Madame Didier, who belongs to a certain feminine type indigenous to every country, has worked with great industry, and Fortune has favoured her. During her visit to England, she came across a certain Mrs. Crosby, the wife of old Mrs. Burbage’s nephew.” He paused, and critically tasted the wine which the waiter had just poured into his glass. “_Bon!_” he exclaimed appreciatively. “This woman,” he continued, “convinced that her husband’s inheritance was stolen from him by our friend, naturally paints her in the glaring colours of an adventuress.” Both men smiled. “The character suits Anne Page, doesn’t it? At any rate it suited Madame Didier, who with unfailing resource has patiently unearthed the story of twenty years ago. This story, I understand, she has lost no time in communicating to the wife of the vicar of your idyllic village, whence having reached the fountain head, I imagine it is flowing in refreshing streams through the entire county?” “No,” returned the doctor quickly. “The vicar, whatever qualities he may lack, happens to be a gentleman, and is moreover one of Miss Page’s many friends. Fortunately this woman, Madame Didier, wrote to him, not to Mrs. Carfax, and as the letter to some extent concerned my wife, he brought it to me.” Fontenelle gently raised his eyebrows, but refrained from comment. “The vicar,” Dr. Dakin went on with a half smile, “is filled with righteous indignation about what he naturally believes an impudent lie. He has written to his correspondent, threatening pains and penalties if she communicates with his wife, or tries in any way to spread the scandal. He’s a wise man,” he added dryly. “Mrs. Carfax is not the woman to be trusted with the reputation of her dearest friends.” There was a moment’s silence. “I didn’t tell him,” continued the doctor, “that I had previously heard the story from my wife, who assures me it is true.” François’s expression was inscrutable. “And--pardon me--you, I imagine, regard the matter as, well let us say as an Englishman?” “If as I suppose I am to understand, you mean that I’m naturally a hypocrite,” returned the doctor rather stiffly, “you are mistaken. Miss Page is the best, the most generous woman I have ever met. Whatever her life may have been, that is the result. The rest doesn’t concern me.” A sudden light sprang into the other man’s eyes. “I beg your pardon,” he said simply, in a tone of sincerity. He looked round the room which was now hot, crowded, and noisy with the clink of glasses, and the babel of talk. “Have you anything to do this evening? If not, will you come round to my club where we can smoke in peace?” “I should like nothing better,” returned Dr. Dakin. XVII “I’m going to tell you the story of Anne Page as I know it,” said Fontenelle, as they sat in a corner of the almost deserted smoking-room. “You may hear all sorts of versions, and I should like you to listen now to the true one.”