"That's so," assented Mr. Benjamin. "Dad, it's a rum thing, but I was interested in that case. There was something queer about it. I read it every bit. I could stand a cross-examination in it now. Dad, it's a lucky thing. She's coming here to consult us about it, as sure as my name is Ben Levy. And, by jabers, here she is!"
There was the sound of a cab stopping at the door, and through a chink in the blinds Mr. Benjamin had seen a lady descend from it. In a moment his hat was off and on the peg, and he commenced writing a letter at the desk.
"Dad," he said quickly, without looking up, "leave this matter to me, will you? I'm up in the case. A lady, did you say, Morrison?"—turning toward the door. "Very good. Show her in at once."
CHAPTER XII
A JEWEL OF A SON
For the first time in her life Helen was taking a definite and important step without her father's knowledge. The matter was one which had caused her infinite thought and many heart searchings. The burden of Rachel Kynaston's dying words had fallen upon her alone. There seemed to be no escape from it. She must act, and must act for herself. Any sort of appeal to her father for help was out of the question. She knew beforehand exactly what his view of the matter would be. In all things concerning her sex he was of that ancient school which reckoned helplessness and inaction the chief and necessary qualities of women outside the domestic circle. He might himself have made some move in the matter, but it would have been half hearted and under protest. She knew exactly what his point of view would be. Rachel Kynaston had been excited by a fancied wrong—her last words were uttered in a veritable delirium! She could not part with the responsibility. The shadow of it lay upon her, and her alone. She must act herself or not at all. She must act herself, and without her father's knowledge, or be false to the charge laid upon her by a dying woman. So with a heavy heart she had accepted what seemed to her to be the inevitable.
She was shown at once into the inner sanctuary of Messrs. Levy & Son. Her first glance around, nervous though she was, was comprehensive. She saw a plainly but not ill-furnished office, the chief feature of which was its gloom. Seated in an easy chair was a little old gentleman with white hair, who rose to receive her, and a little farther away was a younger man who was writing busily, and who did not even glance up at her entrance. Although it was not a particularly dark morning, the narrowness of the street and the small dusty windows seemed effectually to keep out the light, and a jet of gas was burning.
Mr. Levy bowed to his visitor, and offered her a chair.
"Miss Thurwell, I presume," he said in his best manner.