‘What? Does Edward know?’ ‘He knows that I and Chicot are one.’ ‘Ah, then I can understand the look he gave you on the night of our first dinner-party--a look full of malignity. He had just been talking of Chicot.’ She shuddered as she pronounced a name associated with such unspeakable horror. And that name was her husband’s; the man branded with the suspicion of a hideous crime was her husband. ‘I am afraid Edward is your secret enemy,’ she said, after a pause. ‘I am sure he is--and I believe he is on the eve of becoming my open enemy. It will be a triumph in a small way for me to take the initiative, and resign the estate.’ CHAPTER XXXII. ON HIS DEFENCE. A letter was brought to the Vicar just as he was sitting down to his five o’clock dinner that Sunday evening in the bosom of his family. The Vicar dined at five on Sundays, giving himself an hour for his dinner, and fifty minutes for repose after it, before he left home for the seven o’clock service. There were those among his congregation who affirmed that the tone of the Vicar’s evening sermon depended very much upon his satisfaction with his dinner. If he dined well he took a pleasant view of human nature and human frailty, and was milder than Jeremy Taylor. If his dinner had been a failure the bitterest Calvinism was not severe enough for him. ‘From the Manor House, sir,’ said the parlour-maid. ‘An answer waited for.’ ‘Why do people bring me letters just as I am sitting down to my dinner?’ ejaculated the Vicar pettishly. ‘From Treverton, too. What can he have to write about?’ Edward Clare looked up, with an eager face. ‘Wants to see me after church this evening--particular business,’ said the Vicar. ‘Tell Mr. Treverton’s man, yes, Susan. My compliments, and I’ll be at the Manor House before nine.’ Edward was mystified. Was John Treverton going to throw himself upon the Vicar’s mercy--to win that good, easy man, over to his cause--and persuade him to wink at the fraud upon the trusts under Jasper’s will? Edward had no opinion of his father’s wisdom, or his father’s strength of mind. The Vicar was so weakly fond of Laura. ‘I hate going out of an evening in such weather,’ said Mr. Clare, ‘but I suppose Treverton has something important to say, or he would hardly ask me to risk a bronchial attack.’ Tom Sampson, sitting by his comfortable fireside, solacing himself for the Sabbath dulness with a cup of strong tea and a dish of buttered toast, was also surprised by a letter from the Manor House, asking him to go there between eight and nine that evening. ‘I am sorry to trouble you about business on Sunday, but this is a matter which will not keep,’ wrote John Treverton. ‘I never did!’ exclaimed Eliza Sampson, when her brother had read the brief letter aloud. Eliza was always protesting that she never did. This fragmentary phrase was her favourite expression of astonishment.