Barron allowed himself a slight and melancholy smile.
"I admit of course—at once—that I could not verify it. As to its prima facie absurdity, I desire to say nothing offensive to you, but there have been many curious circumstances connected with your relation to the Fox-Wilton family which have given rise before now to gossip in this neighbourhood. I could not but perceive that the story told me threw light upon them. The remarkable language of Sir Ralph's will, the position of Miss Hester in the Fox-Wilton family, your relation to her—and to—to Miss Puttenham."
Meynell's composure became a matter of some difficulty, but he maintained it.
"What was there abnormal—or suspicious—in any of these circumstances?" he asked, his eyes fixed intently on his visitor.
"I see no purpose to be gained by going into them on this occasion," said Barron, with all the dignity he could bring to bear. "For the unfortunate thing is—the thing which obliged me whether I would or no—and you will see from the dates that I have hesitated a long time—to bring Judith Sabin's statement to your notice—is that she seems to have talked to some one else in the neighbourhood before she died, besides myself. Her son declares that she saw no one. I have questioned him; of course without revealing my object. But she must have done so. And whoever it was has begun to write anonymous letters—repeating the story—in full detail—with the identification—that I have just given you."
"Anonymous letters?" repeated Meynell, raising himself sharply. "To whom?"
"Dawes, the colliery manager, received the first."
"To whom did he communicate it?"
"To myself—and by his wish, and in the spirit of entire friendliness to you, I consulted your friend and supporter, Mr. Flaxman."
Meynell raised his eyebrows.