She motioned him to a chair, and stood above him, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece. She breathed a little quickly, but George drew no inference from that.
“Eight years ago,” he said, slowly, “you employed me as your counsel. You were charged with theft—stealing a pair of shoes—at Peckton Quarter-Sessions. You retained me at a fee of one guinea.”
Neaera was motionless, but a slight smile showed itself on her face. “What are Quarter-Sessions?” she asked.
“You pleaded guilty to the charge, and were sentenced to a month’s imprisonment with hard labour. The guinea I asked you about was my fee. I gave it to that fat policeman to give back to you.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Neston, but it’s really too absurd.” And Neaera relaxed her statuesque attitude, and laughed light-heartedly, deliciously. “No wonder you were startled last night—oh, yes, I saw that—if you identified your cousin’s fiancée with this criminal you’re talking about.”
“I did and do identify her.”
“Seriously?”
“Perfectly. It would be a poor joke.”
“I never heard anything so monstrous. Do you really persist in it? I don’t know what to say.”