"Suppose he wasn't Tristram of Blent at all?"
Duplay stopped short where he stood—on the slope of the hill above Blent itself.
"What? Is this more nonsense?"
"No, it isn't nonsense."
He looked at her steadily, almost severely. Under his regard her smile disappeared; she grew uncomfortable.
"Then I must know more about it. Come, Mina, this is no trifle, you know."
"I shan't tell you any more," she flashed out, in a last effort of petulance.
"You must," he said calmly. "All you know, all you think. Come, we'll have it out now at once."
She followed like a naughty child. She could have bitten her tongue out, as the old phrase goes. Her feelings went round like a weather-cock; she was ashamed of herself, sorry for Harry—yes, and afraid of Harry. And she was afraid of Duplay too. She had run herself into something serious—that she saw; something serious in which two resolute men were
involved. She did not know where it would end. But now she could not resist. The youthful uncle seemed youthful no more; he was old, strong, authoritative. He made her follow him, and he bade her speak.