“Really,” I found myself saying, “a little more proof seems needful. We do not know anything about your uncle’s marriage, Jack.”
“It was five years ago,” Maimie said readily. “I can show you letters which will prove everything, Aunt Marion. You will see it all,—truly you will.”
But for the first time she seemed to realise her position. A sudden flush passed over her face, and she clasped her hands.
“Oh, don’t, please don’t, send me out into those dreadful London streets. I should die there. I have no friends in England. Father made me come, though I wanted so much to stay with him. He said you would be so pleased,—indeed he did.”
It sounded very like Churton Hazel. I was obliged to admit this to myself.
Robert stepped forward, and gravely took her hand between his own. “My dear, do not be afraid,” he said. “We should not think of turning you out into the streets. But you must not be surprised that we think it right to make a few inquiries. Your stepfather has acted in a very strange manner,—in never telling us of his marriage, and in not writing about your coming. Where is he now?”
“In the States,” she said.
“Have you always lived in the States?”
“O no,—in Canada. We have lived in Canada. But he was not getting on well, and he heard of something to do in the States, and he said he couldn’t take me with him. I don’t exactly understand why. He said he must send me to you, until he could come to England for me, or else have me out to him there. And he seemed so sure that you and Aunt Marion would be pleased to have me for a few months.”
“What is your father’s present address?”