“I don’t know,” she said. “I wish he wasn’t in it. He is on my conscience. Are you smiling?”
“At your having a conscience? No, I fancied that was how you stood. And the growing beard?”
She did not laugh.
“I don’t know about that. All I know is that we’ve had—why am I telling you this? Who are you, Mr. Broad?”
He chuckled.
“Some day I’ll tell you,” he said; “and I promise you that, if you’re handy, you shall be the first to know. Go easy with that boy, Lola.”
She did not resent the employment of her first name, but rather it warmed her towards this mystery man.
“And write to Mr. Bron, Assistant Chief Warder of Pentonville Gaol, and tell him that you’ve been called out of town and won’t be able to see him again for ten years.”
To this she made no rejoinder. He left her at the door of her flat and took her little hand in his.
“If you want money to get away, I’ll send you a blank cheque,” he said. “There is no one else on the face of the earth that I’d give a blank cheque to, believe me.”