"That I am a man who would do no woman wrong, and that in my present visit to you I am animated by an honest, earnest desire to serve the young lady your daughter serves and loves."
"I am certain of it, sir."
"Being certain of it," said Basil, "is there nothing more you can tell me that might aid me in my desire to be of service to Miss Bidaud? I gather from what you have said that your daughter is sincerely attached to her young mistress, and she will know whether Miss Bidaud is happy or not."
"I'm not sure, sir," said Mrs. Crawford, speaking slowly, "whether I've a right to tell everything, you being a stranger to me."
"But not a stranger to Miss Bidaud," said Basil, eagerly, "remember that, Mrs. Crawford. Next to her father, I was in Australia her dearest friend----"
"Are you sure of that, sir?" interrupted Mrs. Crawford. "We sometimes deceive ourselves. My young lady, to my knowledge had a friend in Australia--a young gentleman like yourself--she thought all the world of. Emily says she was never tired of speaking about him and of his kindness to her. His name is Mr. Basil Whittingham. Perhaps you are acquainted with him?"
"I know something of him," said Basil. He had been on the point of disclosing himself, but remembrance of the part Newman Chaytor was playing checked him in time.
"Of course, there may be others," continued Mrs. Crawford, "and it isn't for me to dispute with you; but if there's one thing that is more positive than another, it is that my young lady thought all the world of Mr. Whittingham. You are Miss Bidaud's friend, and you don't seem to think much of her uncle. That's the way with us. My Emily hates the very sight of him--though she doesn't let him see it, you may be sure, sir--because of the way he behaves to Miss Bidaud. How I come to know so much about Mr. Whittingham is, because all the letters he wrote to Miss Bidaud from Australia were addressed to my care. If they hadn't been, my young lady's uncle or aunt would have got hold of them and she would never have seen them. When they arrived I used to put them in an envelope and address them to my Emily--not to Villa Bidaud, but to different post-offices, according to the directions she gave me."
"Were there many of these letters?" asked Basil, keeping guard upon his feelings.
"About one every six or seven months, sir."