So he went away, and Barron had a few more minutes in which to meditate on the room and its owner. When at last Meynell came back, and settled himself in the chair opposite to his visitor, with a quiet "Now I am quite at your service," Barron found himself overtaken with a curious and unwelcome hesitation. The signs—a slightly strained look, a quickened breathing—that Meynell still bore upon him of a physical wrestle, combined perhaps with a moral victory, suddenly seemed, even in Barron's own eyes, to dwarf what he had to say—to make a poor mean thing out of his story. And Meynell's shining eyes, divided between close attention to the man before him and some recent and disturbing recollections in which Barron had no share, reinforced the impression.
But he recaptured himself quickly. After all, it was at once a charitable and a high-judicial part that he had come to play. He gathered his dignity about him, resenting the momentary disturbance of it.
"I am come to-day, Mr. Meynell, on a very unpleasant errand."
The formal "Mr." marked the complete breach in their once friendly relations. Meynell made a slight inclination.
"Then I hope you will tell it me as quickly as may be. Does it concern yourself, or me? Maurice, I hope, is doing well?"
Barron winced. It seemed to him an offence on the Rector's part that Meynell's tone should subtly though quite innocently remind him of days when he had been thankful to accept a strong man's help in dealing with the escapades of a vicious lad.
"He is doing excellently, thank you—except that his health is not all I could wish. My business to-day," he continued, slowly—"concerns a woman, formerly of this village, whom I happened by a strange accident to see just after her return to it—"
"You are speaking of Judith Sabin?" interrupted Meynell.
"I am. You were of course aware that I had seen her?"
"Naturally—from the inquest. Well?"