“Mere baggage, I suppose.” “Gabriel thought her a noble woman. I think as Gabriel did.” John Strong cast a rapid glance at his daughter’s face. There was some movement about his mouth—the hard lines were softer, the gray eyes less repellent. “You mean to tell me that the woman is presentable?” “Far more presentable than I am. Do you think Gabriel would have risked all for a slattern?” John Strong winced. “Then whose fault was it?” he asked. “Whose, indeed?” “You tell me that Gabriel is an honest man, that the girl is all that she should be, while the law has declared for the Gusset woman. How can these things harmonize?” “My dear father, do you trust Ophelia Gusset?” John Strong considered his reply a moment, like a witness confronting an expert advocate. “The law trusted her,” he said. “What is the law?” “Common-sense, girl.” “It was Ophelia’s word against Gabriel’s. You believed Ophelia.” “The evidence was on her side. And why the devil should the woman kick up such a dust if she had suffered nothing?” “Because that marriage was a mockery; because she did not love Gabriel; because she wanted to get back her liberty.” John Strong leaned back and stared sullenly under his bushy brows towards the sea. Judith knew that he was thinking deeply, and that his thoughts were tinged with bitterness, the bitterness of a proud and self-righteous man half moved to confess himself deceived. Had not his own reason uttered these same words that he heard from Judith’s lips, and had he not hurled them again and again out of his heart with scorn? “Judith,” he said, “I would give my right hand to know whether my son was a fool or a knave.” “And the proof lies—” “Partly with the woman for whom he ruined himself. Gabriel was always a dreamer and an enthusiast. I tried to break him of his Quixotism. That’s where we clashed.” “And Joan Gildersedge?” “The girl may have been an adventuress, or a mere twin fool to Gabriel. If I could have that girl’s heart like an open ledger before me, I wager I could discover who falsified the accounts.” “You think so, father?” “I have seen something of the world.” “And Ophelia?” He answered with an oath. Before them ran a straight road. On the left towered a beech-wood, where huge trunks pillared the gloom under the dense cloud of green. On the right ran meadows ablaze with gold. Set back from the road stood a red-tiled cottage under the shade of two poplars and an elm. The white garden-gate blinked between two yew-trees at the end of a path that ran over the meadow. Judith drew up suddenly by the roadside and sprang down into the grass. She took a strap from under the seat and tethered the mare to a stake in the hedge. Her father watched her with no great interest. Judith had many poor folk on her charity, and such visits as this were by no means rare. “Come with me,” she said, holding out her hand to him. “Who lives yonder? Old Milton? You don’t want me on these occasions.”