“My daughter’s married life is a wreck,” she burst out, pointing theatrically to the door by which Linley and Sydney Westerfield had retired.  “And Catherine has the vile creature whom your brother picked up in London to thank for it!  Now do you understand me?”

“Less than ever,” Randal answered—­“unless you have taken leave of your senses.”

Mrs. Presty recovered the command of her temper.

On that fine morning her daughter might remain in the garden until the luncheon-bell rang.  Linley had only to say that he wished to speak with his wife; and the private interview which he had so rudely insisted on as his sole privilege, would assuredly take place.  The one chance left of still defeating him on his own ground was to force Randal to interfere by convincing him of his brother’s guilt.  Moderation of language and composure of manner offered the only hopeful prospect of reaching this end.  Mrs. Presty assumed the disguise of patient submission, and used the irresistible influence of good humor and good sense.

“I don’t complain, dear Randal, of what you have said to me,” she replied.  “My indiscretion has deserved it.  I ought to have produced my proofs, and have left it to you to draw the conclusion.  Sit down, if you please.  I won’t detain you for more than a few minutes.”

Randal had not anticipated such moderation as this; he took the chair that was nearest to Mrs. Presty.  They were both now sitting with their backs turned to the entrance from the library to the drawing-room.

“I won’t trouble you with my own impressions,” Mrs. Presty went on.  “I will be careful only to mention what I have seen and heard.  If you refuse to believe me, I refer you to the guilty persons themselves.”

She had just got to the end of those introductory words when Mrs. Linley returned, by way of the library, to fetch the forgotten parasol.

Randal insisted on making Mrs. Presty express herself plainly.  “You speak of guilty persons,” he said.  “Am I to understand that one of those guilty persons is my brother?”

Mrs. Linley advanced a step and took the parasol from the table.  Hearing what Randal said, she paused, wondering at the strange allusion to her husband.  In the meanwhile, Mrs. Presty answered the question that had been addressed to her.

“Yes,” she said to Randal; “I mean your brother, and your brother’s mistress—­Sydney Westerfield.”

Mrs. Linley laid the parasol back on the table, and approached them.

She never once looked at her mother; her face, white and rigid, was turned toward Randal.  To him, and to him only, she spoke.

“What does my mother’s horrible language mean?” she asked.

Mrs. Presty triumphed inwardly; chance had decided in her favor, after all!  “Don’t you see,” she said to her daughter, “that I am here to answer for myself?”

Mrs. Linley still looked at Randal, and still spoke to him.  “It is impossible for me to insist on an explanation from my mother,” she proceeded.  “No matter what I may feel, I must remember that she is my mother.  I ask you again—­you who have been listening to her—­what does she mean?”