“All this has nothing to do with me,” Macheson said quietly. “The only thing I have to consider is whether I ought or ought not to hand you over to the police.”
The man eyed him craftily. He had little fear.
“If you did, sir,” he said, “it would be an injustice. I only touched the old man in self-defence.”
Macheson looked at him gravely.
“I hope that that is the truth,” he said. “You can go.”
The man stood up. He did not immediately depart.
“What is it?” Macheson asked.
“I was wondering, sir,” he said, in a confidential whisper, “whether you could not give me an idea as to who the lady was who called herself Stephen Hurd’s daughter in Paris six years ago.”
Macheson shook his head.
“I have no idea,” he answered curtly.