After many fruitless inquiries Eustace returned to the sitting-room to explain. "I told you I didn't trust her," said Frank, whose fears took shape at once. "She is a silent, secretive woman. I am sure she will get me into trouble. Why should she know that name?"
"I can't say. And now she talks of some child--her own, she says. But you needn't be afraid, Frank, she's as true as steel."
"I don't trust her," said Frank, doggedly. "Where did you pick her up?"
Jarman, driven into a corner, replied reluctantly: "In a London court."
"A police-court?" inquired Lancaster; then, when he received a nod, went on: "Then she's dangerous. What do you know of her past?"
"Nothing. She never speaks of it. The poor wretch was taken up for vagrancy, and afterwards was handed over to the missionary. I knew the chap, and he told me what a capital cook the woman was, and how she needed a good home to put her right. She came to me as Miss Cork, and I have had no reason to regret having played the part of a good Samaritan. But it's strange that the name of Balkis should upset her."
"Won't she explain?"
"No. She is a very obstinate woman when the fit takes her."
But the fit apparently did not seal Miss Cork's mouth on this occasion. A soft knock at the door told of her return, and she presented herself quietly. Picking up the cloth she proceeded to lay the table, and without looking at the men proceeded to exculpate herself.
"I ask your pardon," she said, in her whispering voice. "I ask your pardon, Mr. Jarman, and yours, sir, but the name Balkis--" Here she stopped, and laid her hand on her heart. "I had a child of that name."