He twisted in the chair.
“Come, come, that’ll do!” he said, brusquely. “You are almighty touchy about this Griffin, I must say. I’m not defending any one in particular. I say there are things we don’t know, that’s all. We don’t know what brought Seymour down to the lower road that night. And— Here! Why do you look like that? Do you know?”
“Yes, I do. He went there to see Carrie Campton. He was in her parlor with her for more than an hour. She brought him there; or he brought her there. At any rate there he was.”
Foster Townsend sprang to his feet. “Carrie Campton!” he repeated. “Carrie Campton— Do you mean to say he went there to see her? I don’t believe it. What for?”
“Why should I know? Probably because he liked her.... Now don’t ask me more about that. It is true. She told Aunt Reliance all about it this very morning. I suppose she hasn’t told before because—well, because. Now will you tell every one the truth, all of it?”
He did not answer. He stood there, rubbing his beard, and considering what he had just heard. He had no doubt it was true. And it explained everything. But it humiliated him, made him furiously angry, not only at Covell, but at every one concerned in this disgraceful snarl entangling his—the great Foster Townsend’s—name and household. He strode to the door.
“Well, I’ll be darned!” he muttered, between his teeth.
His niece reached the door before him and stood with her back against it.
“Wait! Wait, Uncle Foster!” she ordered. “You can’t go yet. I have more to say to you.”
“I don’t want to hear it. I have heard too much already. And I am half an hour late as it is.”