Nancy was stricken mute, and her countenance would no longer disguise what she suffered. ‘No need to upset yourself,’ pursued the other in smiling confidence. ‘I mean no harm. I’m curious, that’s all; just want to know one or two things. We’re old friends, and whatever you tell me will go no further, depend upon that.’ ‘What do you mean?’ The words came from lips that moved with difficulty. Beatrice, still smiling, bent forward. ‘Is it any one that I know?’ ‘Any one--? Who--?’ ‘That made it necessary for you to go down into Cornwall, my dear.’ Nancy heaved a sigh, the result of holding her breath too long. She half rose, and sat down again. In a torture of flashing thoughts, she tried to determine whether Beatrice had any information, or spoke conjecturally. Yet she was able to discern that either case meant disaster; to have excited the suspicions of such a person, was the same as being unmasked; an inquiry at Falmouth, and all would at once be known. No, not all. Not the fact of her marriage; not the name of her husband. Driven to bay by such an opponent, she assumed an air wholly unnatural to her--one of cynical effrontery. ‘You had better say what you know.’ ‘All right. Who was the father of the child born not long ago?’ ‘That’s asking a question.’ ‘And telling what I know at the same time. It saves breath.’ Beatrice laughed; and Nancy, become a mere automaton, laughed too. ‘That’s more like it,’ said Miss. French cheerfully. ‘Now we shall get on together. It’s very shocking, my dear. A person of my strict morality hardly knows how to look you in the face. Perhaps you had rather I didn’t try. Very well. Now tell me all about it, comfortably. I have a guess, you know.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘Wait a little. I don’t want to be laughed at. Is it any one I know?’ ‘You have never seen him, and I dare say never heard of him.’ Beatrice stared incredulously. ‘I wouldn’t tell fibs, Nancy.’ ‘I’m telling the truth.’ ‘It’s very queer, then.’ ‘Who did you think--?’ The speaking automaton, as though by defect of mechanism, stopped short. ‘Look straight at me. I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear that it was Luckworth Crewe.’ Nancy’s defiant gaze, shame in anguish shielding itself with the front of audacity, changed to utter astonishment. The blood rushed back into her cheeks; she voiced a smothered exclamation of scorn. ‘The father of my child? Luckworth Crewe?’ ‘I thought it not impossible,’ said Beatrice, plainly baffled. ‘It was like you.’ Nancy gave a hard laugh. ‘You judged me by yourself. Have another guess!’ Surprised both at the denial, so obviously true, and at the unexpected tone with which Nancy was meeting her attack, Miss. French sat meditative. ‘It’s no use guessing,’ she said at length, with complete good-humour. ‘I don’t know of any one else.’ ‘Very well. You can’t expect me to tell you.’