‘Nice young lady, that Miss Teresa,’ observed Mr. Puddephatt.
‘Yes,’ said Richard.
By this time they had passed through St. Albans and were well on the way to Edgware.
‘They do say,’ said Mr. Puddephatt, leaning back luxuriously against the cushions—‘they do say as she isn’t his daughter—not rightly.’
‘They say what?’ asked Richard quietly, all alert, but not choosing to seem so.
Mr. Puddephatt reaffirmed his statement.
‘Who says that?’ asked Richard.
‘Oh!’ said Mr. Puddephatt, ‘I dare say it isn’t true. But it’s gotten about the village. Ye never know how them tales begin. I dare say it isn’t true. Bless ye, there’s lots o’ tales.’
‘Oh, indeed!’ Richard remarked sagaciously.
‘Ay!’ said Mr. Puddephatt, filling his pipe, ‘lots o’ tales. That night as she ran away from the farm, and Mrs. Bridget had to fetch her back from the White Horse—— Everybody said as how the old man ill-treated her, daughter or no daughter.’