"Yes, sir; and thank you kindly, sir."
"I don't want any thanks. See that you don't miss the train; that's all you have to take care of."
Mr. Marchmont went out into the garden again. He had done something, at any rate; he had arranged for getting this woman out of the way.
If––if by any remote chance there might be yet a possibility of keeping the secret of Mary's existence, here was one witness already got rid of.
But was there any chance? Mr. Marchmont sat down on a rickety old garden–seat, and tried to think––tried to take a deliberate survey of his position.
No; there was no hope for him. Look which way he could, there was not one ray of light. With George Weston and Olivia, Betsy Murrel the servant–girl, and Hester Jobson to bear witness against him, what could he hope?
The surgeon would be able to declare that the child was Mary's son, her legitimate son, sole heir to that estate of which Paul had taken possession.
There was no hope. There was no possibility that Olivia should waver in her purpose; for had she not brought with her two witnesses––Hester Jobson and her husband?
From that moment the case was taken out of her hands. The honest carpenter and his wife would see that Mary had her rights.
"It will be a glorious speculation for them," thought Paul Marchmont, who naturally measured other people's characters by a standard derived from an accurate knowledge of his own.