‘How did I know?—How could I tell, at that time, whether you were alive or dead?—I had to think of myself and the child.’
‘My poor girl!’
The words fell from him involuntarily. Nancy’s look became as scornful and defiant as before.
‘Oh, that was nothing. I’ve gone through a good deal more than that.’
‘Stop. Tell me this. Have you in your anger—anger natural enough—allowed yourself to speak to any one about me in the way I should never forgive? In the spirit of your letter, I mean. Did you give this Beatrice French any ground for thinking that I made a speculation of you?’
‘I said nothing of that kind.’
‘Nor to any one else?’
‘To no one.’
‘Yet you told this woman where I was living, and that I had been abroad for a long time. Why?’
‘Yes, I told her so much about you,’ Nancy replied. ‘Not when she first came to me, but afterwards—only the other day. I wanted employment, and didn’t know how to get it, except through her. She promised me a place if I would disclose your name; not that she knew or cared anything about you, but because she still had suspicions about Mr. Crewe. I was desperate, and I told her.’