Hubert nodded.

‘And you went to her as soon as you left me?’

’After hearing from the doctor that there was no immediate danger.—­The letters, I suppose, would have announced your death?’

Hubert again inclined his head.  The imperturbable gravity of the speaker had the effect of imposing self-command on the young man; whose sensitive cheeks showed what was going on within.

‘Will you tell me of your interview with her?’ he asked.

‘It was of the briefest; my French is not fluent.’

‘But she speaks English well.’

’Probably her distress led her to give preference to her native tongue.  She was anxious to go to you immediately, and I told her where you lay.  I made inquiries next day, and found that she was still giving you her care.  As you were doing well, and I had to be moving homewards, I thought it better to leave without seeing you again.  The innkeeper had directions to telegraph to me if there was a change for the worse.’

‘My pocket-book saved me,’ remarked Hubert, touching his side.

Mr. Wyvern drew in his lips.

‘Came between that ready-stamped letter and Wanley Manor,’ was his comment.

There was a brief silence.

‘You allow me a question?’ the vicar resumed.  ’It is with reference to the French lady.’

‘I think you have every right to question me.’

‘Oh no!  It does not concern the events prior to your—­accident.’  Mr. Wyvern savoured the word.  ’How long did she remain in attendance upon you?’

‘A short time—­two day—­I did not need—­’

Mr. Wyvern motioned with his hand, kindly.

‘Then I was not mistaken,’ he said, averting his eyes for the first time, ‘in thinking that I saw her in Paris.’

‘In Paris?’ Hubert repeated, with a poor affectation of indifference.

’I made a short stay before crossing.  I had business at a bank one day; as I stood before the counter a gentleman entered and took a place beside me.  A second look assured me that he was the man who met me at the edge of the wood that morning.  I suppose he remembered me, for he looked away and moved from me.  I left the bank, and found an open carriage waiting at the door.  In it sat the lady of whom we speak.  I took a turn along the pavement and back again.  The Frenchman entered the carriage; they drove away.’

Hubert’s eyes were veiled; he breathed through his nostrils.  Again there was silence.

‘Mr. Eldon,’ resumed the vicar, ’I was a man of the world before I became a Churchman; you will notice that I affect no professional tone in speaking with you, and it is because I know that anything of the kind would only alienate you.  It appeared to me that chance had made me aware of something it might concern you to hear.  I know nothing of the circumstances of the case, merely offer you the facts.’

‘I thank you,’ was Hubert’s reply in an undertone.