"I am very sorry, uncle," she murmured. "I feel faint—is that wine? Give me some."
Barton poured out a glass of port and gave it to her. The colour began to return to her cheeks, and with it the spiteful sparkle of triumph in her eyes.
"Well, what is it?" asked the Squire irritably.
"It's about Miss Crane," replied the widow, plunging at once into the middle of her story. "She received a letter yesterday from London which made me suspicious. This evening she asked leave to go out at nine—a most unreasonable hour—but out of consideration for what I thought would be your wish, I gave her permission. But, at the same time, I thought it right to follow her, and see what she was up to."
"Very good of you I'm sure," sneered Barton, now more himself. "Well?"
"Well, I found your Miss Crane in very intimate communion with a man behind the church—a ragged, disreputable-looking person, whom she called Jabez."
To all appearances the Squire was not in the least impressed by this information. He betrayed no sign of emotion, but fixed his eyes steadily on the triumphant face of his niece.
"And you listened to their tittle-tattle, I suppose?" he said gravely.
"It was my bounden duty to do so, uncle—and, indeed, it is well I did, for now I am in a position to warn you. That is why I came at once. You are in great danger!"
"Oh, you think I'm in danger, do you? Well, go on, and repeat what you heard, and I'll tell you whether I think so."