'Did Beatrice—you let me question?—did she know?'
'Only, she says, in consequence of a letter my father addressed to Mr. Baxendale.'
The lady smiled again.
'I ask because Beatrice is now and then a little mysterious to me. I spoke to her of that letter in the full belief that she must have knowledge of the circumstances. She denied it, yet, I thought, as if it were a matter of conscience to do so.'
'I think it more than likely that my aunt had written to her on the subject. And yet—no; she would not have denied it to you. That would be unlike her.'
'Yes, I think it would.'
Mrs. Baxendale mused. Before she spoke again a servant entered the room with tea.
'You will be glad of a cup, I am sure,' said the lady. 'And now, what do you propose to do? Shall you return to London?'
'Oh, no! I shall stay in Dunfield till I am able to see her.'
'Very well. In that case you will not refuse our hospitality. The longer you stay the better pleased I shall be.'