“A wing of the old house adjoining the smithy was on fire—the house I mean that has been shut up so long because it is thought—”
“Who dared think?” cried Learmont, in a voice of violent anger. “Who dared think of me—”
“Of you, sir?”
“Aye—who dared—?”
“It was of the house I spoke.”
“But—but is it not my house, quibbler?” cried Learmont.
“Truly, sir.”
“Then on with your speech, sir, and draw no inferences from idle gossips. The wing of my house was on fire. Enough—what followed?”
“A man rushed from it in mortal agony of mind and body, carrying a child—”
“Well—well!”