"Don't worry yourself about right or wrong just now; tell me more about it, at once."
"I knew no more till six months ago—last November, when you went up to Lady Cumnor. Then he called, and gave me his wife's address, but still under promise of secrecy; and, except those two times, and once when Roger just alluded to it, I have never heard any one mention the subject. I think he would have told me more that last time, only Miss Phœbe came in."
"Where is this wife of his?"
"Down in the south; near Winchester, I think. He said she was a Frenchwoman and a Roman Catholic; and I think he said she was a servant," added Molly.
"Phew!" Her father made a long whistle of dismay.
"And," continued Molly, "he spoke of a child. Now you know as much as I do, papa, except the address. I have it written down safe at home."
Forgetting, apparently, what time of night it was, Mr. Gibson sate down, stretched out his legs before him, put his hands in his pockets, and began to think. Molly sate still without speaking, too tired to do more than wait.
"Well!" said he at last, jumping up, "nothing can be done to-night; by to-morrow morning, perhaps, I may find out. Poor little pale face!"—taking it between both his hands and kissing it; "poor, sweet, little pale face!" Then he rang the bell, and told Robinson to send some maid-servant to take Miss Gibson to her room.
"He won't be up early," said he, in parting. "The shock has lowered him too much to be energetic. Send breakfast up to him in his own room. I'll be here again before ten."
Late as it was before he left, he kept his word.