"Who says so?" exclaimed the Dean, jumping up from his chair.
"I heard it first,—or rather Mary did,—in common conversation, from an old friend. I then learned the truth from Knox. Though he had told none of us, he had told Knox."
"And Knox has known it all through?"
"No, only lately. But he knows it now. Knox supposes that they are coming home so that the people about may be reconciled to the idea of his having an heir. There will be less trouble, he thinks, if the boy comes now, than if he were never heard of till he was ten or fifteen years old,—or perhaps till after my brother's death."
"There may be trouble enough still," said the Dean, almost with a gasp.
The Dean, it was clear, did not believe in the boy. Lord George remembered that he himself had expressed disbelief, and that Mr. Knox had almost rebuked him. "I have now told you all the facts," said Lord George, "and have told them as soon as I knew them."
"You are as true as the sun," said the Dean, putting his hand on his son-in-law's shoulder. "You will be honest. But you must not trust in the honesty of others. Poor Mary!"
"She does not feel it in the least;—will not even interest herself about it."
"She will feel it some day. She is no more than a child now. I feel it, George;—I feel it; and you ought to feel it."
"I feel his ill-treatment of myself."