“How did you become acquainted with the writer of that letter?”
Richardson hesitated.
“She came to a dancing class at Islington,” he said.
Wingrave’s face was expressionless, but his tone betrayed his incredulity.
“A dancing class at Islington! Nonsense!”
“Mind,” the young man asserted, “it was her mistress who put her up to this! It was nothing to do with her. It was for her mistress’s sake.”
“Do you know the mistress?” Wingrave asked.
“No; I don’t know her name even. Never heard it.”
“Your letter, then, was from the maid?”
“Of course, it was,” Richardson answered. “If you recognize the writing, you must know that yourself.”