“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 for my purpose to be fully acquainted with.  You know them—­and for that reason I come to you.”

“What events do you mean?”

“Events that 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 town’s-people.  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 hard, harsh, angry 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 bargain for that when you came here.  Go to the church and inquire about me—­you