"And pray what did he call me?"
"Harry Chandos."
"Well, now mark me, Miss Hereford. That man accosted you to worm out what he could of our everyday life at home. His name is Barley—Edwin Barley. He is a bitter enemy of ours, and if he could pick up any scrap of news or trifle of fact that he could by possibility turn about and work so as to injure us, he would do it."
"But how could he, sir?" I exclaimed, not understanding.
"His suspicions are no doubt aroused that—that—I beg your pardon, Miss Hereford," he abruptly broke off, with the air of one who has said more than he meant to say. "These matters cannot interest you. You—you did not tell Mr. Barley what I imparted to you this morning, touching myself?"
"Oh, Mr. Chandos, how can you ask the question? Did I not promise you to hold it sacred?"
"Forgive me," he gently said. "Nay, I am sorry to have pained you."
He had pained me in no slight degree, and the tears very nearly rose in my eyes. I would rather be beaten with rods than have my good faith slighted. I think Mr. Chandos saw something of this in my face.
"Believe me, I do not doubt you for a moment; but Edwin Barley, in all that regards our family, is cunning and crafty. Be upon your guard, should he stop you again, not to betray aught of our affairs at Chandos, the little daily occurrences of home life. A chance word, to all appearance innocent and trifling, might work incalculable mischief to us, even ruin. Will you remember this, Miss Hereford?"
I promised him I would, and went back to the house, he continuing his way. At the end of the privet walk a gate led to the open country, and I supposed Mr. Chandos had business there. As I reached the portico a gentleman was standing there with the butler, asking to see Lady Chandos. It was Mr. Jarvis, the curate.