"When a gentleman—and a neighbour, as you now say he is—makes inquiries in passing after the invalids of the family you may be staying with, I do not see any harm in answering. One can't turn away like a bear, and say, I will not tell you."
"As you please. I do not think Mr. Chandos would approve of your speaking to him."
"Talking of Mr. Chandos, has he returned from that police errand yet?"
"I saw him ride past half an hour ago."
"I must hasten home," she returned, beginning to move away. "Mrs. Chandos cannot be left for long. I have run all the way back from the post, and I ran to it."
What a strangely persevering man that Edwin Barley seemed to be! If Mrs. Penn knew—as she evidently did know—the dark secrets of the Chandos family, what might he not get out of her? I nearly made up my mind to inform Mr. Chandos.
Alas for me! for my poor courage! Turning a sharp corner by the alcove to go home, I came upon him standing there; Edwin Barley. Was he waiting for me, or for Mrs. Penn? But she had gone by the other path. It was too late to retreat. I essayed to do it, but he placed himself in my way.
"Not so fast, young lady. I have been expecting you to come up: I saw you in the distance, and waited to exchange a word with you. Why! you won't be so discourteous as to refuse!"
"I cannot stay now, thank you."
"Oh, yes, you can—when I wish it. I want to inquire after the health of the family. There's no getting anything out of anybody: they 'can't tell me how my lady is, save from hearsay;' they 'never see her,' they 'see nearly as little of Mr. Chandos.' You and I can be more confidential."