“And you know them—lots of them? You know their parents, and how they live?”
“Yes, I know them well—too well.” He added the last softly, almost involuntarily.
The girl heard, and threw a quick look of sympathy into his eyes.
“Good! You are just the one I want, then,” she cried. “And you will help me; won’t you?”
McGinnis hesitated. An eager light had leaped to his eyes. For a moment he dared not speak lest his voice break through the lines of stern control he had set for it.
“I shall be glad to give you any help I can,” he said at last, steadily; “but Mr. Spencer, of course, knows——” he paused, leaving his sentence unfinished.
“But that is exactly it,” interposed Margaret, earnestly. “Mr. Spencer does not know—at least, he does not know personally about the mill people, I mean. He told me long ago that you stood between him and them, and had for a long time. It is you who must tell me.”
“Very well, I will do my best. Just what—do you want to know?”
“Everything. And I want not only to be told, but to see for myself. I want you to take me through the mills, and afterward I want to visit some of the houses where the children live.”
“Miss Kendall!” The distressed consternation in the man’s voice was unmistakable.