It seemed very curious to Madge that she should become the confidant of those two men, with whose fate that of her mother had been so sadly associated. She was thrust into the ungracious position of arbiter between them; she had to decide whether or not the one was false and treacherous, or the other the victim of his own hasty passion and self-deceived in his accusations. She was satisfied that Mr Beecham had spoken under the conviction of the truth of what he told her; and Mr Hadleigh had just shown her that—if innocent—he could be magnanimous, by his willingness to meet in friendliness one whom he had so long regarded as his implacable foe.
The position involved so much in the result to her and to Philip, that she felt a little bewildered, and almost afraid of what she was about to hear. But she could forgive: that knowledge steadied her.
Mr Hadleigh with his formal courtesy asked her to be seated. He stood at the window, and she could see that the white gloom of the coming snowstorm was reflected on his face.
‘May I inquire where you have met Mr Shield?’
She was obliged to reply as she had done to a question put by Philip, which, although different, was to the same purport: ‘I may not tell you yet.’
‘Philip knows that you have met him?’
‘No.’ It was most uncomfortable to have to give these evasive answers, which seemed to make her the one who had to give explanations. She observed that Mr Hadleigh’s heavy eyebrows involuntarily lifted.
‘I ought not to have asked. Pardon me.’
Something in his tone and manner plainly showed that he had penetrated her secret and Mr Beecham’s.
‘I am sorry not to be able to give you a direct answer.’