“Since you have lived at Mount Morven,” he proceeded, “I think you have found me, on the whole, an easy man to get on with. At the same time, when I do make up my mind to be master in my own house, I am master.”
Mrs. Presty crossed her hands placidly on her lap, and asked: “Master of what?”
“Master of your suspicions of Miss Westerfield. You are free, of course, to think of her and of me as you please. What I forbid is the expression of your thoughts—either by way of hints to my brother, or officious communications with my wife. Don’t suppose that I am afraid of the truth. Mrs. Linley shall know more than you think for, and shall know it to-morrow; not from you, but from me.”
Mrs. Presty shook her head compassionately. “My good sir, surely you know me too well to think that I am to be disposed of in that easy way? Must I remind you that your wife’s mother has ‘the cunning of the devil’?”
Linley recognized his own words. “So you were listening among the trees!” he said.
“Yes; I was listening; and I have only to regret that I didn’t hear more. Let us return to our subject. I don’t trust my daughter’s interests—my much-injured daughter’s interests—in your hands. They are not clean hands, Mr. Linley. I have a duty to do; and I shall do it to-morrow.”
“No, Mrs. Presty, you won’t do it to-morrow.”
“Who will prevent me?”
“I shall prevent you.”
“In what way, if you please?”