“You must not cry, you must not cry! You will spoil your pretty face if you cry,” said Mr. Rayner almost angrily.
I knew he hated the sight of anything ugly or distressing—it was part of an artist’s nature, he said; so I forced back my tears as fast as I could, and tried to smile.
“There is my lovely girl again!” said he, stopping in front of me—he had walked up and down the room while I wept. “We will never mention Sarah’s name again when once we are away from her, little one,” said he. “But until we go, or until our respected friend Mr. Maynard goes, I am afraid she must still occupy a good deal of our thoughts. She will certainly not be able to submit to any cross-examination on his part to-morrow, or for a long time to come—if she ever is,” said he gravely. “And in the mean time he will try to trump up a story and to criminate as many persons as he can, just to show his superiors that he has not wasted his time here. And certainly he will leave our poor Sarah without a rag of character.”
“But, do you know, Mr. Rayner, I don’t think Sarah has always been as nice a woman as you suppose,” said I timidly. “From what I have heard her say, I think, when she was young, she must have had some horrid friends who made her do all sorts of wrong things; and that is why I cannot be as much surprised as you are at her doing wicked things now.”
“Did you tell Mr. Maynard that?”
“No, I only answered his questions. He said he was her brother—and of course I did not want to make him doubt his own sister. But, Mr. Rayner, I want to ask you something. Have you ever heard of a James Woodfall?”
He was sitting by me on the sofa, with his head turned away. He did not answer my question at once. Then he said very quietly—
“Did Mr. Maynard ask you that?”
He turned slowly as he said so, until his eyes met mine.
“Oh, no! I heard Sarah say the name when she was delirious—the first night—Friday night,” I whispered.