Thus silently conjured Elizabeth deposited the tray, and her mother
whispered as she drew near, "'Tis he."

"Who?" said the girl.

"The Mayor."

The tremors in Susan Henchard's tone might have led any person but one
so perfectly unsuspicious of the truth as the girl was, to surmise
some closer connection than the admitted simple kinship as a means of
accounting for them.

Two men were indeed talking in the adjoining chamber, the young
Scotchman and Henchard, who, having entered the inn while Elizabeth-Jane
was in the kitchen waiting for the supper, had been deferentially
conducted upstairs by host Stannidge himself. The girl noiselessly laid
out their little meal, and beckoned to her mother to join her, which
Mrs. Henchard mechanically did, her attention being fixed on the
conversation through the door.

"I merely strolled in on my way home to ask you a question about
something that has excited my curiosity," said the Mayor, with careless
geniality. "But I see you have not finished supper."

"Ay, but I will be done in a little! Ye needn't go, sir. Take a seat.
I've almost done, and it makes no difference at all."

Henchard seemed to take the seat offered, and in a moment he resumed:
"Well, first I should ask, did you write this?" A rustling of paper