“I never heard—no, never, till last night,” cried the old woman eagerly.
“But even now,” said Mrs. Guthrie, “I can’t understand, Anna, what made you do it. Was it to please Willi?”
“Yes,” said Anna in an embarrassed tone. “It was to please my good nephew, gracious lady.”
CHAPTER XXXII
“And now,” said Mrs. Guthrie, looking at the little group of people who sat round her in the Council Chamber, “and now I have told you, almost I think word for word, everything my poor old Anna told me.”
As Mr. Reynolds remained silent, she added, with a touch of defiance, “And I am quite, quite sure that she told me the truth!”
Her eyes instinctively sought the Dean’s face. Yes, there she found sympathy,—sympathy and belief. It was impossible to tell what her husband was thinking. His face was not altered—it was set in stern lines of discomfort and endurance. The Government official looked sceptical.
“I have no doubt that the woman has told you a good deal of the truth, Mrs. Guthrie, but I do not think she has told you all the truth, or the most important part of it. According to your belief, she accepted this very strange deposit without the smallest suspicion of the truth. Now, is it conceivable that an intelligent, sensible, elderly woman of the kind she has been described to me, could be such a fool?”
And then, for the first time since his wife had returned there from her interview with Anna, Major Guthrie intervened.