That straight-out blow of Daniel Granger's
had left a discoloration of the skin--what in a meaner man might have been
called a black eye. He, too, had hit hard in that brief tussle; but no
stroke of his had told like that blow of the Yorkshireman's. Mr. Granger
bore no trace of the encounter.
The two men met with as serene an air as if they had never grappled each
other savagely in the twilight.
"I considered it due to Mrs. Granger that I should call upon you," George
Fairfax began, "in order to explain her part in the affair of last night."
"Go on, sir. The old story, of course--Mrs. Granger is spotless; it is only
appearances that are against her."
"So far as she is concerned, our meeting yesterday afternoon was an
accident. She came there to see another person."
"Indeed I Mr. Austin the painter, I suppose?--a man who painted her
portrait, and who had no farther acquaintance with her than that. A very
convenient person, it seems, since she was in the habit of going to his
rooms nearly every afternoon; and I suppose the same kind of accident as
that of yesterday generally brought you there at the same time."
"Mrs. Granger went to see her brother."
"Her brother?"
"Yes, Austin Lovel; otherwise Mr. Austin the painter. I have been pledged
to him to keep his identity a secret; but I feel myself at liberty to break
my promise now--in his sister's justification.
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