The evening of that day found Bertha an occupant of the room which had remained so long empty in Mrs. Liloquist’s lodging-house. She had been introduced as Miss Mary Barker, a cousin of Mr. Glynne’s, who was on the way to see her brother who lived in Berwick-on-Tweed, near the Scottish border.
“It’s a long journey,” said Mrs. Glynne, “and I am going with her. I told Mr. Potts—he is the head man at the place where I work—that I was about tired out and needed a little vacation. So you see, as the old proverb says, I am going to kill two birds with one stone.”
Mrs. Liloquist always subdued her curiosity if she was confided in. It was the safest way to deal with her, for if subjected to a severe cross-examination, which was quite possible, she might tell more than was wished, or than was desirable under the circumstances.
When Jennie and her husband were alone in their own room, Jennie remarked: “I think I have satisfied Mrs. Liloquist. I don’t think she will ask you any questions.”
“But you have not satisfied my curiosity,” said Clarence. “Now is the accepted time; where are you going—I mean, which way are you going to Paris?”
“Well, sit down,” said Jennie, “and I will tell you the whole story. It is quite a romance. I was born, as you know, in the little coast town of Pagham in Sussex. The people make their living by fishing, and my father was a fisherman. You know, both my father and mother are dead. If I had not been left an orphan, I should not have come to London. I am glad I did so, for if I had not I should never have met you; but that’s not to the point. I have been down to Pagham. There are a good many living there now who knew my father. One of his best friends was Captain Jacob Carder, who now owns one of the best fishing vessels in the town. Now, perhaps, you guess my plan.
“Instead of taking Bertha to Paris by way of Dover and Calais, we shall go down to Pagham and Captain Carder will take us over to France in his schooner. He says he will land us at a place where it will be easy for us to get a train for Paris. Your father, of course, will ask you where Bertha is. You must say you don’t know. In such cases, white lies are allowable. I cannot tell you what to say to your father, because, if I do, I know you will get it all mixed up. Whatever you say you must invent on the spur of the moment and then stick to it.”
By half-past six the next morning Mrs. Glynne and Bertha were on their way to Pagham. Clarence did not accompany them to the station.
“You had better not,” said Jennie. “Your father will put detectives on your track, and one of them will be sure to be at the station and recognise you. I am not so well known and for that reason will be able to escape observation. I shouldn’t wonder if your father came to London by the first train from Buckholme.”
Clarence arrived at his office an hour earlier than usual. His wife’s surmise had been correct—his father was there before him.