"Mr. Temple, I was asking Mr. Wynne a question, to which for some reason he did not seem able or willing to reply; will you tell me whether you ever knew Eugene Trevor?"
An instant's pause—then, in a tone in which, though calm, there was something unnatural and strange in the sound, there came the laconic reply—"I did."
And then there was a solemn pause. For what could Eustace Trevor add—how reply to the mute but eager questioning of those eyes, now fixed intently upon him, as if in the verdict of his lips there lay more power to ease the heart of its blind fears and nameless misgivings—more in one calm word of his
"Than all the world's defied rebuke."
Therefore, though Mary held her breath, hoping, longing that he should proceed, yet shrinking from more direct inquiry, there he stood, with lips compressed and stern averted eyes; no marble statue could have remained more mute; till to break the ominous and oppressive silence, Mary pronounced the name of "Eustace Trevor."
Then, indeed, her listener's eyes relaxed their fixed expression—a sudden glow lit up his countenance.
In a low, deep tone, and with a soft, melancholy smile, he demanded:
"And what, Miss Seaham, of Eustace Trevor?"
"What of him? Oh! Mr. Temple, all—everything that you may know—may have reason to suspect or conceive concerning him!"
Another pause; and then the voice of Mr. Temple, with renewed sadness replied: