“I might with truth repeat what you have said,” returned the doctor slowly.
He took up his knife and fork, and absently replaced them on his plate, into which he stared, as though lost in thought.
“And so,” said François, watching him, “you are naturally indignant about a certain story——”
The other man looked up quickly.
“I know all about it,” Fontenelle went on. “Madame Didier, who belongs to a certain feminine type indigenous to every country, has worked with great industry, and Fortune has favoured her. During her visit to England, she came across a certain Mrs. Crosby, the wife of old Mrs. Burbage’s nephew.”
He paused, and critically tasted the wine which the waiter had just poured into his glass.
“Bon!” he exclaimed appreciatively.
“This woman,” he continued, “convinced that her husband’s inheritance was stolen from him by our friend, naturally paints her in the glaring colours of an adventuress.”
Both men smiled.
“The character suits Anne Page, doesn’t it? At any rate it suited Madame Didier, who with unfailing resource has patiently unearthed the story of twenty years ago. This story, I understand, she has lost no time in communicating to the wife of the vicar of your idyllic village, whence having reached the fountain head, I imagine it is flowing in refreshing streams through the entire county?”