What all this portended Prudence scarcely grasped. One fact, and one fact alone, stood out luridly before her. Augusta was in the workhouse.
“Oh!” she gasped in dismay, “in the workhouse! My sister in the workhouse. Where is it? Let me go at once. I must take her away.”
“I think you had better not attempt to do anything of the kind,” said the Inspector stiffly. “The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children has taken the matter up, and you’ll hear more of it later. You had better just leave the child alone. She is in good hands now anyway, very different from those you put her into. My advice to you is to keep quiet. You’ll see her all right later on, and may be you’ll have to tell your share in the case.”
“My share in the case is easily told,” said poor Prudence. “As I explained to you already, I thought I was placing her in a good home, with a kind, respectable woman, but it seems I was mistaken.”
If anyone has formed an opinion that another is wily, the simplest speech or action tends to confirm it. In the heart-moving accents of Prudence, Inspector Smith heard only duplicity. In her open, though tear-stained, countenance he read nothing but low cunning.
“It’s quite wonderful,” he said coldly, “to see how easy it is to deceive people when it is to their interests to be deceived; they ask no questions and they are told no lies, and a troublesome baby is got rid of, that’s how it is.”
“Well, I did want to get rid of her for a little time,” admitted Prudence, with the characteristic foolish candour that so often covers the innocent with suspicion, “because it was not convenient to have her where I live. If you knew the circumstances, sir, you would feel for me. They are very peculiar and extraordinary, but indeed I asked questions and Mrs. Brown told me lies.”
The Inspector looked at her under his shaggy brows, he did not quite know what to make of her simplicity. She was either an admirable actress or else—she seemed really white and ill and frightened, but with that kind of woman one never knew how much was “fake.”
“Will you please give me your full name and address,” he said.
“Prudence Elizabeth Semaphore, 37, Beaconsfield Gardens, South Kensington.”