She gave a rapid account of their visit to the house,—of its complete desertion—of the strange behaviour of the niece—and of the growing alarm in her own mind.
"There's something—there's some plot. Perhaps that woman's in it. Perhaps Gertrude's got hold of her—or Miss Andrews. Anyway, if that house can be left quite alone—ever—they'll get at it—that I'm sure of. Why did she take the children away? Wasn't that strange?"
Then she put her hands on the heart that fluttered so—and tried to smile—
"But of course till the Bill's thrown out, there can be no danger, can there? There can't be any!" she repeated, as though appealing to him to reassure her.
"I don't understand yet," he said gravely. "Why do you suspect Miss Marvell, or a plot at all? There was no such idea in your mind when we went over the house together?"
"No, none!—or at least not seriously—there was nothing, really, to go on"—she assured him eagerly. "But just after—you remember Mr. Lathrop's coming—that day—?—when you scolded me?"
He could not help smiling a little—rather bitterly.
"I remember you said you couldn't explain. Of course I thought it was something connected with Miss Marvell, or your Society—but—"
"I'm going to explain"—she said, trying hard for composure. "I'm going to tell it all in order."
And sitting down, her head resting on her hand, with Winnington standing before her, she told the whole story of the preceding weeks—the alternations of fear and relief—Lathrop's suspicions—Gertrude's denials—the last interview between them.