I didn't believe it when you first said so, but I do
now."
"Well, thank you for saying that much; though you might have put it
civiler--"
"His name was Arthur Carr. Did you never hear tell of anybody with the
name of Arthur Carr?"
"No: never--never till this very moment."
"The Painter-man will know," continued Mat, talking more to himself
than to Mrs. Peckover. "I must go back, and chance it with the
Painter-man, after all."
"Painter-man?" repeated Mrs. Peckover. "Painter? Surely you don't mean
Mr. Blyth?"
"Yes, I do."
"Why, what in the name of fortune can you be thinking of! How should
Mr. Blyth know more than me? He never set eyes on little Mary till she
was ten year old; and he knows nothing about her poor unfortunate
mother except what I told him."
These words seemed at first to stupefy Mat: they burst upon him in the
shape of a revelation for which he was totally unprepared. It had never
once occurred to him to doubt that Valentine was secretly informed of
all that he most wished to know. He had looked forward to what the
painter might be persuaded--or, in the last resort, forced--to tell
him, as the one certainty on which he might finally depend; and here
was this fancied security exposed, in a moment, as the wildest delusion
that ever man trusted in! What resource was left? To return to
Dibbledean, and, by the legal help of Mr.
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