“I confess I don’t know,” he said, “and I must ask you to be a little more explicit.”
“Well,—dear me! How tiresome you are—it’s about this quarrel between uncle Jabez and Mr. Pinder.”
“Are you Mr. Tinker’s niece? Then really, Miss Tinker, I think if your uncle wants to open up any negotiations towards a settlement he’d better send his lawyer.”
“What! Nehemiah Wimpenny! How could he? Didn’t I tell you no one was to know anything of my visit but you and me, and Mr. Wimpenny’s the very last man in the world I’d chose for any errand of mine.”
“But in what can I help you, Miss Tinker? You will understand, of course, that I cannot discuss my client’s affairs with anyone without his knowledge and privilege,—no, not though an angel drop from the clouds.”
“I suppose that’s a rechauffé from one of your pretty sayings to Lizzie Hudson. Oh! Yes! I know all about it Mr. Sykes. Lizzie and I were at school together, and I thought it just odious of her not to ask me to her wedding.”
“And only a minute ago she asked me if there were a Mrs. Sykes,” reflected the harassed young man. “Will she ever get to her story?”
“And that’s what gave me confidence to come to you, Mr. Sykes. Not the not being asked to the wedding, but because you were Lizzie’s husband, and I did think of calling on her and bringing her with me, but she’d have guessed,”—and here Dorothy stopped abruptly.
“Yes, she’d have guessed?” said Mr. Sykes, encouragingly.
“Never you mind what Lizzie would have guessed. It’s about this lawsuit I’ve come. I suppose I’d better come to the point.”