"To Richard North's!" echoed the doctor, the words taking him by surprise. "No."
"Are you familiar with Richard North's handwriting?"
Oliver Rane paused to think, and then replied with a passing laugh. "I really believe I do not know his handwriting, madam."
"Then why did you speak so confidently?"
"I spoke in the impulse of the moment. Richard North, of all men, is the lest likely to do such a thing as this."
The young lady, Matilda North, turned round from her book. An opera cloak of scarlet gauze was on her shoulders, as if she were cold; she drew it closer with an impatient hand.
"Mamma, why do you harp upon Richard? He couldn't do it; papa told you so. If Dick saw need to find fault with any one, or tell tales, he would do it openly."
One angry gleam from madam's eyes as her daughter settled to her book again, and then she proceeded to close the interview.
"As you profess yourself unable to give me information or to detect any clue, I will not detain you longer, Dr. Rane."
He stood for a second, expecting, perhaps, that she might offer her hand. She did nothing of the sort, only bowed coldly. Matilda North took no notice of him whatever: she was content to follow her mother's teachings when they did not clash with her own inclination. Dr. Rane had ceased to marvel why he was held in disfavour by Mrs. North: to try to guess at it seemed a hopeless task. Neither could he imagine why she opposed his marriage with Bessy; for to Bessy and her interests she was utterly indifferent.