The Vicar heard her with some apprehension. He, too, had perceived the malignity of Edward’s feelings towards John Treverton. He ascribed the young man’s malice to the jealousy of a rejected suitor; and he knew that from jealousy to hatred was but a step. But he could not believe that his son--his own flesh and blood--could be capable of doing a great wrong to a man who had never consciously injured him. That Edward should make any evil use of his knowledge of John Treverton’s identity with the suspected Chicot was to the Vicar’s mind incredible--nay, impossible. ‘You have nothing to fear from Edward, my dear,’ he said, gently patting the young wife’s hand as it lay despondingly in his; ‘make your mind easy on that score.’ ‘There is Mr. Gerard. He, too, knows my husband’s secret.’ ‘He, too, will respect it. No one can look in John Treverton’s face and believe him a murderer.’ ‘No,’ cried Laura, naïvely; ‘those cruel people who wrote in the newspapers had never seen him.’ ‘My dear Laura, you must not distress yourself about newspaper people. They are obliged to write about something. They could put themselves in a passion about the man in the moon if there were nobody else for them to abuse.’ Laura told the Vicar about the telegram received from Auray, with its promise of good news. ‘What can be better than that? my dear,’ he cried, delightedly. ‘And now I want you to come to the Vicarage with me. Celia is most anxious to have you there, as she says you won’t have her here.’ ‘Does Celia know!’ Laura began to ask faltering. ‘Not a syllable. Neither Celia nor her mother has any idea of what has happened. They know that Treverton is away on business. That is all.’ ‘Do you think Edward has said nothing?’ ‘I am perfectly sure that Edward has been as silent as the Sphinx. My wife would not have held her tongue about this sad business for five minutes, if she had had an inkling of it, or Celia either. They would have been exploding in notes of admiration, and would have pestered me to death with questions. No, my dear Laura, you may feel quite comfortable in coming to the Vicarage. Your husband’s secret is only known to Edward and me.’ ‘You are very good,’ said Laura gently, ‘I know how kindly your invitation is meant. But I cannot leave home. John may come back at any hour. I am continually expecting him.’ ‘My poor child, is that reasonable? Think how far it is from here to Auray.’ ‘Think how fast he will travel, when once he is free to return.’ ‘Very well, Laura, you must have your own way. I’ll send Celia to keep you company.’ ‘Please don’t,’ said Laura, quickly. ‘You know how fond I have always been of Celia--but just now I had rather be quite alone. She is so gay and light-hearted. I could hardly bear it. Don’t think me ungrateful, dear Mr. Clare; but I would rather face my trouble alone.’