"Oh!" Lady Sanby shook her old head knowingly, as she knew much of Ralph's love-story. "So you still adore the daughter of that wretched woman who was murdered in the Pink Shop?"
"Yes. And you said you liked Audrey, grannie?"
"So I do; she's a dear girl. But I didn't like her vulgar old mother, though I shouldn't say that now, seeing she is dead. Nor do I like her father. He's a wicked, domineering navvy, and will probably be made a Peer. Those sort of rich labourers always do get Peerages. Well, so you are going to marry?"
"I must if I want to succeed in my profession," said Ralph, quickly. "My head is full of love matters, and I can't think of my clients. Yes, I want to get married in three days, and I have come to you for help."
"Oh, I shall do whatever you want, my dear boy. You are so clever that I look on you as one likely to reflect credit on me. Sanby and his family are all idiots. Well, and how can I assist you?"
"I shall explain. In the first place, I wish to tell you a rather surprising story, about which you must promise to keep silence.
"Oh! my dear lad, I am a well--a very well--for keeping secrets. If I said all I knew I could ruin half the men in London, and all the women. Well?"
Shawe wasted no further talk in introducing his subject, but related all that he knew about the case--from the time Lady Branwin had entered the Pink Shop down to the last words Audrey had told him concerning Badoura's accusation of Eddy Vail. "Now, what do you think?" he asked, when he had finished his long story, and felt vexed that the old lady did not display more astonishment.
"It is a wonderful story," Lady Sanby assured him, coolly, "and truth is always stranger than fiction. But I have had so many surprises in my long life that nothing astonishes me. I am glad you told me, and I can well see that it is a thing one must hold one's tongue about. So vexing; one always has to keep silence about the most wonderful things. Do you think that Sir Joseph Branwin--horrid man!--is guilty?"
"I can't say."