"Yes. I have been to Melcombe. I could discover nothing at all. No," in answer to another look, "neither then, or at any other time."
"But you are older than I am, so much older, had you never any suspicion of anything at all? Did nothing ever occur before I was old enough to notice things which roused in you any suspicions?"
"Suspicions of what?"
"Of disgrace, I suppose. Of crime perhaps I mean; but I don't know what
I mean. Do you think John knows of this?"
"No. I am sure he does not. But don't agitate yourself," he went on, observing that Valentine's hand trembled. "Remember, that whatever this secret was that your father kept buried in his breast, it has never been found out, that is evident, and therefore it is most unlikely now that it ever should be. In my opinion, and it is the only one I have fully formed about the matter, this crime or this disgrace—I quote your own words—must have taken place between sixty and seventy years ago, and your father expressly declares that he had nothing to do with it."
"But if the old woman had," began Valentine vehemently, and paused.
"How can that be?" answered Giles. "He says, 'I know not in her case what I could have done,' and that he has never judged her."
Valentine heaved up a mighty sigh, excitement made his pulses beat and his hands tremble.
"What made you think," he said, "that it was so long ago? I am so surprised that I cannot think coherently."
"To tell you why I think so, is to tell you something more that I believe you don't know."