"I am not at liberty to say how I know it—
but I do know it."

"Are you at liberty to say how you found out
my address?"

"Certainly. I got your address from Mrs.
Clements."

"Mrs. Clements is a foolish woman. Did she
tell you to come here?"

"She did not."

"Then, I ask you again, why did you come?"
As she was determined to have the answer, I
gave it to her in the plainest possible form.

"I came," I said, "because I thought Anne
Catherick's mother might have some natural
interest in knowing whether she was alive or
dead."

"Just so," said Mrs. Catherick, with additional
self-possession. "Had you no other motive?"

I hesitated. The right answer to that question
was not easy to find, at a moment's notice.

"If you have no other motive," she went on,
deliberately taking off her slate-coloured mittens,
and rolling them up, "I have only to thank
you for your visit; and to say that I will not
detain you here, any longer. Your information
would be more satisfactory if you were willing
to explain how you became possessed of it.
However, it justifies me, I suppose, in going
into mourning. There is not much alteration
necessary in my dress, as you see. When I
have changed my mittens, I shall be all in black."

She searched in the pocket of her gown; drew
out a pair of black-lace mittens; put them on
with the stoniest and steadiest composure; and
then quietly crossed her hands in her lap.

"I wish you good morning," she said.

The cool contempt of her manner irritated me
into directly avowing that the purpose of my
visit had not been answered yet.

"I have another motive in coming here," I
said.

"Ah! I thought so," remarked Mrs. Catherick.

"Your daughter's death——"

"What did she die of?"

"Of disease of the heart."

"Yes? Go on."

"Your daughter's death has been made the
pretext for inflicting serious injury on a person
who is very dear to me. Two men have been
concerned, to my certain knowledge, in doing
that wrong. One of them is Sir Percival Glyde."

"Indeed?"

I looked attentively to see if she flinched at
the sudden mention of that name. Not a muscle
of her stirred—the hard, defiant, implacable
stare in her eyes never wavered for an instant.

"You may wonder," I went on, "how the
event of your daughter's death can have been
made the means of inflicting injury on another
person."

"No," said Mrs. Catherick; "I don't wonder
at all. This appears to be your affair. You are
interested in my affairs. I am not interested in
yours."

"You may ask, then," I persisted, "why I
mention, the matter, in your presence."

"Yes: I do ask that."

"I mention it because I am determined to
bring Sir Percival Glyde to account for the
wickedness he has committed."

"What have I to do with your determination?"

"You shall hear. There are certain events in
Sir Percival's past life which it is necessary to
my purpose to be fully acquainted with. You
know them—and for that reason, I come to you."

"What events do you mean?"

"Events which occurred at Old Welmingham,
when your husband was parish-clerk at that
place, and before the time when your daughter
was born."

I had reached the woman at last, through the
barrier of impenetrable reserve that she had
tried to set up between us. I saw her temper
smouldering in her eyes—as plainly as I saw her
hands grow restless, then unclasp themselves,
and begin mechanically smoothing her dress
over her knees.

"What do you know of those events?" she
asked.

"All that Mrs. Clements could tell me," I
answered.

There was a momentary flush on her firm,
square face, a momentary stillness in her restless
hands, which seemed to betoken a coming
outburst of anger that might throw her off her
guard. But, no—she mastered the rising irritation;
leaned back in her chair; crossed her arms
on her broad bosom; and, with a smile of grim
sarcasm on her thick lips, looked at me as
steadily as ever.

"Ah! I begin to understand it all, now," she
said; her tamed and disciplined anger only
expressing itself in the elaborate mockery of her
tone and manner. "You have got a grudge of
your own against Sir Percival Glyde—and I
must help you to wreak it. I must tell you this,
that, and the other about Sir Percival and
myself, must I? Yes, indeed? You have been
prying into my private affairs. You think you
have found a lost woman to deal with, who lives
here on sufferance; and who will do anything
you ask, for fear you may injure her in the
opinions of the townspeople. I see through you
and your precious speculation—I do! and it
amuses me. Ha! ha!"

She stopped for a moment: her arms tightened
over her bosom, and she laughed to herself—a
slow, quiet, chuckling laugh.

"You don't know how I have lived in this
place, and what I have done in this place, Mr.
What's-your-name," she went on. "I'll tell you,
before I ring the bell and have you shown out.
I came here a wronged woman. I came here,
robbed of my character, and determined to claim
it back. I've been years and years about it—
and I have claimed it back. I have matched the
respectable people, fairly and openly, on their
own ground. If they say anything against me,
now, they must say it in secret: they can't say
it, they daren't say it, openly. I stand high
enough in this town, to be out of your reach.
The clergyman bows to me. Aha! you didn't