“All along from when, Duffham?”
“From—from—well, from the time you first knew that a child was over there.”
Sir Geoffry cast his thoughts back. He could not remember anything about the child’s coming to Church Dykely. In point of fact, the Grange had been empty at the time.
“I understood that the child was one of Captain and Mrs. Layne’s,” he rejoined. “Every one said it; and I never had any other thought. Even yesterday at the Grange you spoke of him as such, Duffham.”
“Of course. Miss Layne was present—and Hester Picker—and the child himself. I did not speak to deceive you, Sir Geoffry. When you said what you did to me in coming away, about calling in other advice for the satisfaction of Major Layne, I thought you were merely keeping up appearances.”
“And it is so, then?”
“Oh dear, yes.”
Another pause. Mr. Duffham affixed the stamp to his letter, and put the paper straight in his note-case. Sir Geoffry suddenly lifted his hand, as one whom some disagreeable reflection overwhelms.
“To think that I was about to write to Major Layne! To think that I should have stood there, in the old lady’s presence, talking boldly with the child! She must assume that I have the impudence of Satan.”
“Mrs. Layne is past that, Sir Geoffry. Her faculties are dulled: three-parts dead. That need not trouble you.”