Both paused—regarding each other. Then Flaxman said, in a raised accent of wonder:
"You think it possible—conceivable—that a man of Mr. Meynell's character—and transparently blameless life—should have not only been guilty of an intrigue of this kind twenty years ago—but should have done nothing since to repair it—should actually have settled down to live in the same village side by side with the lady whom the letter declares to be the mother of his child—without making any attempt to marry her—though perfectly free to do so? Why, my dear sir, was there ever a more ridiculous, a more incredible tale!"
Flaxman sprang to his feet, and with his hands in his pockets, turned upon his visitor, impatient contempt in every feature.
"Wait a moment before you judge," said Barron dryly. "Do you remember a case of sudden death in this village a few weeks ago?—a woman who returned from America to her son John Broad, a labourer living in one of my cottages—and died forty-eight hours after arrival of brain disease?"
Flaxman's brow puckered.
"I remember a report in the Post. There was an inquest—and some curious medical evidence?"
Barron nodded assent.
"By the merest chance, I happened to see that woman the night after she arrived. I went to the cottage to remonstrate on the behaviour of John Broad's boys in my plantation. She was alone in the house, and she came to the door. By the merest chance also, while we stood there, Meynell and Miss Puttenham passed in the road outside. The woman—Mrs. Sabin—was terribly excited on seeing them, and she said things which astounded me. I asked her to explain them, and we talked—alone—for nearly an hour. I admit that she was scarcely responsible, that she died within a few hours of our conversation, of brain disease. But I still do not see—I wish to heaven I did!—any way out of what she told me—when one comes to combine it with—well, with other things. But whether I should finally have decided to make any use of the information I am not sure. But unfortunately"—he pointed to the letter still in Flaxman's hand—"that shows me that other persons—persons unknown to me—are in possession of some, at any rate, of the facts—and therefore that it is now vain to hope that we can stifle the thing altogether."
"You have no idea who wrote the letter?" said Flaxman, holding it up.
"None whatever," was the emphatic reply.