"Reid told ye the truth for once," she muttered. "'Twas Antonio lied."
"Then Miriam was his wife, and Lady—"
"Yes," she answered, "it was Miriam," but she did not meet my eyes. Then she went on hastily, before I could speak again.
"Ye see, sir, 'twas like this: When Miriam died, her mother's heart nearly went with her, an' so because the poor dear loved her more than enough, she did not go quite away. 'Tis so some whiles, when the livin' holds too close by the dead. She used to talk to her, an' when the villain that let her die got doctors an' looked like judgment, an' said my poor soul was wrong in her head, an' ought to be taken away, an' they moved her out there in the counthry where they had no friends, an' kept her hidden as if there was a shame upon her, sure the lovin' soul of the dead girl followed her mother. They said she was crazy when she made them move her daughter's room, an' keep it up in the new house as it had been in the old, an' would sit an' talk to her there. Sure, 'twas no sign at all, an' a black lie in Reid's black heart to set the husband an' the daughter again' her. Some folks are that way, that can see the fairy folk an' the goblins, an' speak with the wandherin' dead. A good priest Mrs. Tabor should have when the power tires her, an' not a lyin' schemin' brute av a docthor that wants to put her away. 'Twas not much at first anyhow. But he turned their heads with his talk av asylums an' horrors to lead them away from his own wickedness."
"Is that the secret, then?" I asked. "Is the trouble no more than their fear that Mrs. Tabor is insane?"
"Secret? What secret? There's no secret they have at all, only a wicked lie." She was growing careful again. "'Tis all that docthor that's never happy but doin' harm. She's no more crazy than meself, an' no one thinks nor fears it, not even him. They only say so, because—" She stopped herself again.
"Sheila," I said, "tell me just one thing. How much truth is there in what your husband says?"
"How do I know what he says?" She was watching me closely, as if to see that I followed her words. "He's dhrunk half the time, poor divil, an' he says one thing to-day an' one to-morrow. Never ye mind him, sir."
"But there must have been something for him to go on," I persisted. "Did Reid have some affair abroad before his marriage, or not?"
She hesitated, her apparent hatred of Reid struggling with her loyalty to the family and her recovered caution.