"I shall do so," said Miss Hale significantly, "when our conversation comes to an end."
Tim groaned and winced. "Bad luck to the crass," he breathed, "an' may the Vargin forgive me for sayin that same."
"Why, bad luck to the cross?" demanded Lesbia, coming to the point.
"An' how shud I know, me dear?"
"But you do know," she insisted. "Tim, your mother gave me that cross."
"Did she now?--the owd fool."
"How dare you, Tim, and Bridget dead? She was your mother."
"Deed an' well she might be, Miss, for an uglier owd woman nivir could be found in County Clare, forby she left it for this blissid country whin I wor a gossoon."
"Did my father bring her over from Ireland, Tim?"
"Not he," Tim shook his Judas-coloured head. "Divil an eye did the pair av us clap on the gintleman for many a long day. Wasn't I a bare-futted brat runnin' wild about Whitechapel till my father--rest his sowl--wos tuck by the police for shop-liftin'--bad luck to thim? An' he died in gaol, poor man--ah, that he did, laving me mother an' me widout bread in the mouths av us."