"Nothing more than I have told you," declared Brendon, uncomfortably. He disliked deviating from the truth even in the smallest particular, but he dare not risk the story of his birth becoming public property. It was strange, he thought, that Mrs. Ward should take such a profound interest in this case. He had never before heard her talk on such a subject. To add to his perplexity, he saw that, in spite of her rouge, in spite of the shaded windows, she looked haggard. Yet it was impossible that she could be connected with the matter in any way. He ventured a leading question. "Why are you so anxious to know about this case?"
Mrs. Ward's reply rather astonished him. "I am not blind," she said quietly, "and I know well enough that you admire my daughter. You are poor, you are unknown, and should Dorothy marry you she would make a very bad match."
"I am aware of that," began George, "but----"
"Wait," cried Mrs. Ward, raising her hand, "I have not yet done. Notwithstanding all these disadvantages, I made up my mind to place no bar to your union with my daughter, as she seems to like you----"
"She loves me, Mrs. Ward."
"Nonsense. Dorothy is too young to know the meaning of the word. I say she likes you, so we can let it stand at that. But in spite of your poverty and obscurity--" Brendon winced, for Mrs. Ward's tone was insolent in the extreme--"I am not willing that you should marry Dorothy, unless----" She hesitated.
"Unless?" queried George, looking steadily at her. "Now we come to the point. Unless your character is above suspicion."
"What do you mean?"
"You know well enough. Here you go to a low house, and while you are there the mistress of it is murdered."
George rose with some indignation. "Good heavens, Mrs. Ward, you don't suspect me!" he cried.