He was a good deal startled by the sharp, quick, peremptory tone she now spoke in, so like her wonted manner, but so widely unlike her late mood of captivating softness, and for a second or two he did not answer. “Tell me frankly, do you believe it?” cried she. “I see no reason to disbelieve it,” was his reply. “Is the boy older than this girl?” asked she, quickly. “I should say so. Yes, certainly. I think so, at least.” “And I am almost as certain he is not,” said she, in the same determined tone. “Now for another point. My brother Vyner is about to make a settlement on this girl; is it not so?” “Yes; I have instructions to prepare a deed.” “And do you believe--is it a thing that your experience warrants you to believe--that he contemplates this for the child of Heaven knows whom, found Heaven knows where? Tell me that!” “It is strange, no doubt, and it surprised me greatly, and at first I couldn’t credit it.” “Nor you don’t now! No, no, Mr. M’Kinlay, ‘don’t be a churl of your confidence. This girl is a Luttrell; confess it?” “On my honour, I believe she is not.” “Then I take it they are cleverer folk than I thought them, for they seem to have deceived you.” “We shall not do it, Sir, in the time,” cried the postilion from his saddle, “unless we start at once.” “Yes, yes, I am coming. If you would write to me, Miss Courtenay, any of your doubts--if you would allow me to write to you.” “What for, Sir? I have no doubts. I don’t certainly see how all this came about; nor--not having Mr. Grenfell’s acquaintance, who was with my brother--am I likely to find out; but I know quite as much as I care to know.” “You suspect--I see what you suspect,” said Mr. M’Kinlay, hoping by one clever dash to achieve the full measure of her confidence. “What is it I suspect?” asked she, with an air of innocent curiosity. “You suspect,” said he, slowly, while he looked intently into her eyes at the time--“you suspect that Sir Gervais means by adopting this child to make some sort of a reparation to Luttrell.” “A what, Sir?” said she, opening her eyes to almost twice the usual size, while her nostrils dilated with passion. “What did you dare to mean by that word?” “My dear Miss Courtenay, I am miserable, the most wretched of men, if I have offended you.” “There’s eleven now striking, Sir, and we may as well send the horses back,” cried the postilion, sulkily. “There, Sir, you hear what he says; pray don’t be late on my account. Good-by. I hope you’ll have no more disasters. Good-by.” For a moment he thought to hasten after her, and try to make his peace; but great interests called him back to town, and, besides, he might in his confusion only make bad worse. It was a matter of much thought, and so, with a deep sigh, he stepped into the chaise and drove away, with a far heavier heart than he had carried from the porch of the cottage. “I must have called a wrong witness,” muttered he, “there’s no doubt of it; _she_ belonged to ‘the other side.’”