“What are you going to do, now that you know Bob Griffin was not in the least responsible for Seymour Covell’s hurt? Are you going to tell every one that? You must.” He pulled at his beard. “Why--why, yes, of course I am,” he admitted, frowning. “That is, I shall pretty soon. Now, now--hold on! There are a good many loose ends to this business. There is a lot to be considered before we do anything rash. Of course, if any one was to say out and out that Griffin was responsible I should put a stop to it. But nobody can say that because it isn’t true. They talk and guess and so on, but they are bound to do that. It doesn’t harm Griffin any, really. He is going off--to Paris--in two or three days.” “And you would let him go--and not tell?” “Hold on, hold on! I said I should tell, didn’t I? But we don’t know anything yet. We must think about--well, about poor Seymour for one. There he is, up in that hospital, senseless, can’t say a word--” “Oh, stop!” scornfully. “Is _that_ the reason why you don’t want to tell? You are so afraid _his_ feelings or reputation may be hurt. And yet you will let Bob leave home under a cloud, while the people here lie about him as much as they like. Oh, shame on you!” He twisted in the chair. “Come, come, that’ll do!” he said, brusquely. “You are almighty touchy about this Griffin, I must say. I’m not defending any one in particular. I say there are things we don’t know, that’s all. We don’t know what brought Seymour down to the lower road that night. And-- Here! Why do you look like that? Do _you_ know?” “Yes, I do. He went there to see Carrie Campton. He was in her parlor with her for more than an hour. _She_ brought him there; or he brought her there. At any rate there he was.” Foster Townsend sprang to his feet. “Carrie Campton!” he repeated. “Carrie Campton-- Do you mean to say he went there to see _her_? I don’t believe it. What for?” “Why should I know? Probably because he liked her.... Now don’t ask me more about that. It is true. She told Aunt Reliance all about it this very morning. I suppose she hasn’t told before because--well, because. Now will you tell every one the truth, all of it?” He did not answer. He stood there, rubbing his beard, and considering what he had just heard. He had no doubt it was true. And it explained everything. But it humiliated him, made him furiously angry, not only at Covell, but at every one concerned in this disgraceful snarl entangling his--the great Foster Townsend’s--name and household. He strode to the door. “Well, I’ll be darned!” he muttered, between his teeth. His niece reached the door before him and stood with her back against it. “Wait! Wait, Uncle Foster!” she ordered. “You can’t go yet. I have more to say to you.” “I don’t want to hear it. I have heard too much already. And I am half an hour late as it is.”