It was useless to deny it. Horace admitted that the servants were right.
Her fingers, suddenly stopped at their restless work among the wools; her breath quickened perceptibly. What had Julian Gray been doing abroad? Had he been making inquiries? Did he alone, of all the people who saw that terrible meeting, suspect her? Yes! His was the finer intelligence; his was a clergyman’s (a London clergyman’s) experience of frauds and deceptions, and of the women who were guilty of them. Not a doubt of it now! Julian suspected her.
“When does he come back?” she asked, in tones so low that Horace could barely hear her.
“He has come back already. He returned last night.”
A faint shade of color stole slowly over the pallor of her face. She suddenly put her basket away, and clasped her hands together to quiet the trembling of them, before she asked her next question.
“Where is—” She paused to steady her voice. “Where is the person,” she resumed, “who came here and frightened me?”
Horace hastened to re-assure her. “The person will not come again,” he said. “Don’t talk of her! Don’t think of her!”
She shook her head. “There is something I want to know,” she persisted. “How did Mr. Julian Gray become acquainted with her?”
This was easily answered. Horace mentioned the consul at Mannheim, and the letter of introduction. She listened eagerly, and said her next words in a louder, firmer tone.
“She was quite a stranger, then, to Mr. Julian Gray—before that?”