“There, there,” and he laughed, “how you women leap at conclusions! There is no such serious need. But I value my neck too much, and yours, my dear, to let her run at large.”
“Then how?”
He looked down at her steadily.
“The girl is mad.”
“Barbara!”
“Yes, mad, poor thing, as a March hare. Mad! Drink the word in, and live on it. Mad—mad! This wild scarecrow of a suspicion is nothing but a shadow on the brain, a shadow of distortion and madness brought on by poor Lionel’s death. There are some of us to swear to that, and our words carry more weight and volume than the ravings of a girl. Mrs. Jael must be worth her money. The whole affair will be very simple. Thank Heaven, son Jack is in the country! I can bleed him and doctor him when he returns.”
Anne Purcell watched him with a trace of wonder in her eyes. The man was so many-sided, such an actor, such a cynic.
“Then—”
“She must be treated as one gone mad, yet discreetly and gently, as though the family niceness were to be considered. No idle talking, no news about town. Yet being dangerous, even, perhaps, against herself—mark that, Nan!—she must be put under soft restraint in some quiet corner where she can do no harm.”
He spoke so shrewdly, and with such a meaning between the words that Anne Purcell again looked scared.