His old voice broke suddenly; and Beatrice heard him draw a long sobbing breath. She knew she ought to speak, but her brain was bewildered with the want of sleep and the long struggle; she could not think of a word to say; she felt herself on the verge of hysteria.
“You have done it all,” he said again presently. “She took all that Mr. Carleton said patiently enough, he told me. It is all your work. Mistress Atherton—”
She looked up questioningly with her bright tired eyes.
“Mistress Atherton; may I know what you said to her?”
Beatrice made a great effort and recovered her self-control.
“I answered her questions,” she said.
“Questions? Did she ask you of the Faith? Did she speak of me? Am I asking too much?”
Beatrice shook her head. For a moment again she could not speak.
“I am asking what I should not,” said the old man.
“No, no,” cried the girl, “you have a right to know. Wait, I will tell you—”