“Now, during the seven years of your marriage—six years, rather, I think—did you ever meet Harborough?”
“Never!”
“Ever hear from him?”
“No.”
“Or of him?”
“I heard—just once—from a friend of mine in Selcaster that he was still travelling abroad, and that Greycloister had then been shut up for some years.”
“Very well. In time your husband died, and you came back to England and took the Dower House here. And last Monday Mr. Harborough returned to Greycloister. Now, Mrs. Tretheroe, I want to ask you a most important question. Did you meet John Harborough last Monday?”
A dead silence fell on the room. For Mrs. Tretheroe hesitated in her answer. Every neck was craned forward. At last she spoke.
“Yes!”
“Where?—and at what time?”