‘A girl called Clara Hewett.’
Their looks met. Scawthorne, in spite of habitual self-command, betrayed an extreme surprise.
‘I wonder what’s become of her?’ continued Joseph, still observing his companion, and speaking with unmistakable significance.
‘Just tell me something about this,’ said Scawthorne peremptorily.
Joseph complied, and ended his story with a few more hints.
‘I never saw her myself—at least I can’t be sure that I did. There was somebody of the same name—Clara—a friend of Polkenhorne’s wife.’
Scawthorne appeared to pay no attention; he mused with a wrinkled brow.
‘If only I could put something between Kirkwood and the girl,’ remarked Joseph, as if absently. ‘I shouldn’t wonder if it could be made worth some one’s while to give a bit of help that way. Don’t you think so?’
In the tone of one turning to a different subject, Scawthorne asked suddenly:
‘What use are you going to make of your father’s offer?’