'Was it a chance meeting?'
'No--by appointment.'
'How was the appointment made?'
'We wrote to say we would come that day.'
'We--who was the other party?'
'Miss Constance Hacket.'
'You were then in correspondence with the prisoner. Was it with the
sanction of Lady Merrifield?'
'No.'
'A secret correspondence, then, romantically carried on--by what
means?'
'Constance Hacket sent the letters and received them for me.'
'What was the motive for this arrangement?'
'I knew my aunt would prevent my having anything to do with him.'
'And you--excuse me--what interest had you in doing so?'
'My mother had been like his sister, and always helped him.'
All these answers were made with a grave, resolute straightforwardness,
generally with something of Dolores's peculiar stony look, and only
twice was there any involuntary token of feeling, when she blushed at
confessing the concealment from her aunt, and at the last question,
when her voice trembled as she spoke of her mother. She kept her eyes
on her interrogators all the time, never once glancing towards the
prisoner, though all the time she had a sensation as if his reproachful
looks were piercing her through.
She was dismissed, and Constance Hacket was brought in, looking about
in every direction, carrying a handkerchief and scent bottle, and not
attempting to conceal her flutter of agitation.
Mr. Calderwood had nothing to ask her but about her having received the
cheque from Miss Mohun and forwarded it to Flinders, though she could
not answer for the date without a public computation back from
Christmas Day, and forward from St.
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