‘The little hypocrite!  I don’t want no more of her false words,’ muttered Tom, returning, in his emotion, to his peasant’s emphatic double negative.

’Hypocrite!  Do you know how nobly and generously she has been helping Mr. and Mrs. Frost through their straits? how faithfully—­’

‘I know better,’ said Tom, hoarsely; ’don’t excuse her, my Lord; you know little of what passes in your own kitchens.’

‘Too true, I fear, in many cases,’ said Louis; ’but I have seen this poor child in circumstances that make me feel sure that she is an admirable creature.  What misunderstanding can have arisen?’

’No misunderstanding, my Lord.  I saw, as plain as I see you, her name and her writing in the book that she gave to Ford—­her copying out of his love-poems, my Lord, in the blank pages,—­if I had wanted any proof of what he alleged.’

And he had nearly thrown the letter into the Pacific; but Louis caught his arm.

‘Did you ever read Cymbeline, Tom?’

‘Yes, to be sure I have,’ growled Tom, in surprise.

’Then remember Iachimo, and spare that letter.  What did he tell you?’

With some difficulty Fitzjocelyn drew from Madison that he had for some time been surprised at Ford’s knowledge of Northwold and the neighbourhood; but had indulged in no suspicions till about the epoch of Robson’s return from Guayaquil.  Chancing to be waiting in his fellow-clerk’s room, he had looked at his books, and, always attracted by poetry as the rough fellow was, had lighted on a crimson watered-silk volume, in the first page of which he had, to his horror, found the name of Charlotte Arnold borne aloft by the two doves, and in the blank leaves several extremely flowery poems in her own handwriting.

With ill-suppressed rage he had demanded an explanation, and had been met with provokingly indifferent inuendoes.  The book was the gift of a young lady with whom Ford had the pleasure to be acquainted; the little effusions were trifles of his own, inscribed by her own fair hands.  Oh, yes! he knew Miss Arnold very well—­very pretty, very complaisant!  Ah! he was afraid there were some broken hearts at home!  Poor little thing! he should never forget how she took leave of him, after forcing upon him her little savings!  He was sorry for her, too; but a man cannot have compassion on all the pretty girls he sees.

‘And you could be deceived by such shallow coxcombry as this!’ said Louis.

‘I tell you there was the book,’ returned Tom.

’Well, Tom, if Mr. Ford prove to be the Ford I take him to be, I’ll undertake that you shall see through him, and be heartily ashamed of yourself.  Give me back the letter,—­you do not deserve to have it.’