Mr. Fransemmery fell into a naturally judicial attitude. His face became thoughtful, and, at first, a little doubtful. But suddenly it cleared.
“My dear sir!” he said. “It is, I believe, within my recollection that, when you were giving evidence before myself and my fellow-jurymen the other morning, you said, clearly, plainly distinctly, without any apparent mental reserve that your one-time feeling of anger and resentment against the late Guy Markenmore had completely died out years ago, and that, had you met him again, you would have offered him your hand. Am I right?”
“Quite!” replied Harborough. “On all points.”
“Then I see no reason why you should not attend the funeral ceremonies,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “None!”
“Well—one’s got to remember that there are people—close at hand—who believe I killed Guy Markenmore,” said Harborough.
“Um!” remarked Mr. Fransemmery dryly. “But—are there? I mean—seriously?”
“Mrs. Tretheroe—and her following,” suggested Harborough.
“Has she any following?” asked Mr. Fransemmery, more dryly. “And as for herself—temper, my dear sir, temper! I don’t believe the woman thinks anything of the sort, if you could really get at her mind—if she has one.”
“I think she did—at first,” said Harborough, after a moment’s reflection. “Natural, perhaps.”
“Natural, perhaps, if one is foolish enough to believe that people cherish resentment indefinitely,” said Mr. Fransemmery. “She must know that her accusation was ridiculous! I do not think I should attach the slightest importance to Mrs. Tretheroe’s opinion. But,” he added, as if struck by a sudden happy thought, “I know what I should do!—I should just ask the two young people at Markenmore Court what their wishes are. My opinion is that they would be glad of your presence.”