“So ye’re washing him for her!” said Mr. Critchlow.
“Yes,” Constance admitted. Spot glanced sharply at the aged man.
“An’ ye seen this bit in the paper about Sophia?” he asked, holding the Signal for her inspection.
“About Sophia?” cried Constance. “What’s amiss?”
“Nothing’s amiss. But they’ve got it. It’s in the ‘Staffordshire day by day’ column. Here! I’ll read it ye.” He drew a long wooden spectacle-case from his waistcoat pocket, and placed a second pair of spectacles on his nose. Then he sat down on the sofa, his knees sticking out pointedly, and read: “‘We understand that Mrs. Sophia Scales, proprietress of the famous Pension Frensham in the Rue Lord Byron, Paris’—it’s that famous that nobody in th’ Five Towns has ever heard of it—‘is about to pay a visit to her native town, Bursley, after an absence of over thirty years. Mrs. Scales belonged to the well-known and highly respected family of Baines. She has recently disposed of the Pension Frensham to a limited company, and we are betraying no secret in stating that the price paid ran well into five figures.’ So ye see!” Mr. Critchlow commented.
“How do those Signal people find out things?” Constance murmured.
“Eh, bless ye, I don’t know,” said Mr. Critchlow.
This was an untruth. Mr. Critchlow had himself given the information to the new editor of the Signal, who had soon been made aware of Critchlow’s passion for the press, and who knew how to make use of it.
“I wish it hadn’t appeared just to-day,” said Constance.
“Why?”