“Hilda,” I said. “I’ve told you that three or four times.”
“Hilda what?”
“I don’t know. I never heard her called anything but Hilda.”
Titherington shut his note book and swore. Then he dropped his pencil on the floor. I felt quite sorry for him. If I had known Hilda’s surname I should have told it to him at once.
“It’s just possible,” I said, “that Selby-Harrison’s father might know. He lives down in these parts somewhere. Perhaps you’ve met him.”
“There’s only one Selby-Harrison here. He’s on your committee, a warm supporter of yours.”
“That’s the man. Selby-Harrison, the son I mean, said he’d write to the old gentleman and tell him to vote for me. I expect he went on my committee after that.”
“And you think he can get at this young woman’s mother?”
“No. I don’t think anything of the sort. All I say is that he may possibly know the name of Hilda’s mother.”
“Can’t I get at Miss Beresford’s mother?”