But these were only episodes in their generally happy life. Never more
happy, more free from any external influence, than when Thomas Carr
arrived there on this identical Saturday. He went in unexpectedly: and
Val's violet eyes, beautiful as ever, shone out their welcome; and Anne,
who happened to have her baby on her lap, blushed and smiled, as she held
it out for the barrister's inspection.
"I dare not take it," said he. "You would be up in arms if it were
dropped. What is its name?"
"Reginald."
A little while, and she carried the child away, leaving them alone. Mr.
Carr declined refreshment for the present; and he and Val strolled out
arm-in-arm.
"I have brought you an item of news, Hartledon. Gorton has turned up."
"Not Gordon?"
"No. And what's more, Gorton never was Gordon. You were right, and
I was wrong. I would have bet a ten-pound note--a great venture for a
barrister--that the men were the same; never, in point of fact, had a
doubt of it."
"You would not listen to me," said Val. "I told you I was sure I could
not have failed to recognize Gordon, had he been the one who was down at
Calne with the writ."
"But you acknowledged that it might have been he, nevertheless; that his
red hair might have been false; that you never had a distinct view of the
man's face; and that the only time you spoke to him was in the gloaming,"
reiterated Thomas Carr.
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