"Do you dare to speak thus of your mother, sir?"
"I—I cannot help doing so," stammered Claude, startled by the anger in her voice. "God knows I wish to revere the memory of my mother, but I cannot help seeing that she was morally responsible for the tragedy."
"She was not! She was not!" said Mrs. Bezel vehemently. "How dare you speak thus? Your father neglected her. He left her to the companionship of Mark Jeringham, while he indulged in his predilection for literary work. All day long he shut himself up in his study, and let his wife sit alone, and miserable. Was it any wonder, then, that she should turn to her old friend for consolation? There was nothing between them—nothing to which any Pharisee could have taken exception."
"But surely my father was sufficiently sensible to see all this?"
"He saw nothing, or what he did see was distorted by his jealousy. The police, in their endeavors to fix the crime on your mother, took the same view of the relations between her and Jeringham. Oh, I know what you read in those papers shown to you by Mr. Hilliston!"
So surprised was Claude by this unexpected introduction of his guardian's name that he could not suppress a start.
"How do you know that Mr. Hilliston showed me the papers?"
Mrs. Bezel saw that she had said too much, but, unable to go back on her words, rapidly resolved to make that revelation which she had hitherto intended to keep as a last resource.
"Mr. Hilliston told me that he had done so."
"Do you know him?"