"Eleanor Bent!" repeated Dr. Green, bending forward once more. "What has she to do with it?"
Thomasina looked down at the floor. She hesitated; perhaps remembering at this moment that she had never before betrayed the confidence of a friend. Perhaps it was because she had a sickening conviction that her whole course in this matter was that of a fool.
"The Listers have imagined—at least Mrs. Lister has from these stupid coincidences—has imagined it for years, weeping over it in secret—that Eleanor Bent is her brother Basil's daughter."
"Extraordinary!" said Dr. Green slowly. "Does any one else have this notion?"
"I think not. Basil was as much forgotten as though he had never been born."
"What are these coincidences?"
"Mrs. Lister saw the two together, followed them, indeed, and says that Margie Ginter was clinging to Basil's arm and pleading with him and crying. In the second place, he went away from Waltonville about the time that the Ginters went. In the third, Eleanor has in Mrs. Lister's eyes a strong resemblance to him. Then there is this writing."
"Writing?" queried Dr. Green.
"Yes, Eleanor's writing. What is more likely than that she should have inherited talent from Basil Everman?"
"The fact that her work bears not the remotest resemblance to his has nothing to do with the question, I presume?"