“Miss—the Salvation Army girl’s in your room, you say. What’s she got to do with it?”
“There’s her and Sullivan’s wife in tears and a shawl and half-a-dozen more of the quality. They say Pat didn’t begin it. But it’ll be no good. Pat’s booked this journey, you bet. Anyhow, here’s your brief, and it’s about time you were off to Court.”
“I think I’ll speak to the Young lady first. Ask her to come here, will you, Sam?”
When the speaker of the previous evening entered the large low room, with its walls lined with many rows of calf-bound volumes of statutes, reports, and precedents, its lettered pigeon-holes, its ponderous safe, and japanned deed boxes, it was evident she had lost for a time the calm serenity that had distinguished her at the Market Cross. Her face was pale, and her eyes looked as though they had lately wept. Her expression was anxious, and her manner agitated. As Beaumont rose from his chair she returned the respectful bow with which he greeted her, and took with some trembling the chair he placed for her. She waited for him to speak.
“Mr. Storth tells me you will be a witness in the case in which Sullivan is charged with assault, Miss——. I beg your pardon, I don’t think Storth told me your name.”
A crimson flush suffused the fair and beautiful features.
“I am called Sister Gertrude in the Army.”
“H’m; I’m afraid the clerk will ask for your full name. I understand this is a serious case, and he may think it necessary to take depositions.”
“My name is Gertrude Fairfax, but, if possible, I prefer that my surname should not appear. There are reasons.”
“Fairfax is a name both known and honoured in Yorkshire,” said Edward, with a courteous inclination towards the lady; “but I should not take you for a native of our county.”