Here she paused to take breath, and then resumed, standing in an attitude of defence against the door, whither John’s threatening aspect had driven her: “You mark my words, sir,” cried Russell, “where that young man is, Madam’s not far off. Miss Sophy, that has her wits about her, she has seen her--and the others that is full of fancies they’ve seen what they think is a ghost; and little Miss Amy, she is wrong in the head with it. This is how I find things when I’m telegraphed for, and brought out to a strange place, and then told as I’m not wanted. But it’s Providence as wants me here. Mrs. Lennox--she always was soft-- I don’t wonder at her being deceived; and, besides, she wasn’t on the spot, and she don’t know. But, Mr. Trevanion, you were there all the time. You know what goings-on there were. It wasn’t the doctor or the parson Madam went out to meet, and who was there besides? Nobody but this young man. When a woman’s bent on going wrong, she’ll find out the way. You’re going to strike me again! but it’s true. It was him she met every night, every night, out in the cold. And then he saw Miss Rosalind, and he thought to himself--here’s a young one, and a rich one, and far nicer than that old-- Mr. John! I know more than any of you know, and I’ll put up with no violence, Mr. John!” John Trevanion’s words will scarcely bear repeating. He put her out of the room with more energy than perhaps he ought to have employed with a woman; and he bade her go to the devil with her infernal lies. Profane speech is not to be excused, but there are times when it becomes mere historical truth and not profanity at all. They were infernal lies, the language and suggestion of hell even if--even if--oh, that a bleeding heart should have to remember this!--even if they were true. John shut the door of his room upon the struggling woman and came back to face himself, who was more terrible still. Even if they were true! They brought back in a moment a suggestion which had died away in his mind, but which never had been definitely cast forth. His impulse when he had seen this young Everard had been to take him by the collar and pitch him forth, and refuse him permission even to breathe the same air: “Dangerous fellow, hence; breathe not where princes are!” but then a sense of confusion and uncertainty had come in and baffled him. There was no proof, either, that Everard was the man, or that there was any man. It was not Madam’s handwriting, but her husband’s, that had connected the youth with Highcourt; and though he might have a thousand faults, he did not look the cold-blooded villain who would make his connection with one woman a standing ground upon which to establish schemes against another. John Trevanion’s brow grew quite crimson as the thought went through his mind. He was alone, and he was middle-aged and experienced in the world; and two years ago many a troublous doubt, and something even like a horrible certainty, had passed through his mind.