‘Certainly not, How should I have known his address? When I saw the newspapers, I went down to Bolton and made inquiries. When I heard your father had been, I concluded you had yourself sent for him. Otherwise, I should, of course, have tried to be useful to you in some way. As it was, I supposed you would scarcely thank me for coming forward.’
It might or might not be the truth, as far as Clara was able to decide. Possibly the information had come from some one else. She knew him well enough to be assured by his tone that nothing more could be elicited from him on that point.
‘You are quite recovered, I hope?’ Scawthorne added, surveying her as she stood in the obscurity. ‘In your general health?’
He was courteous, somewhat distant.
‘I suppose I’m as well as I shall ever be,’ she answered coldly. ‘I asked you to meet me because I wanted to know what it was you spoke of in your last letters. You got my answer, I suppose.’
‘Yes, I received your answer. But—in fact, it’s too late. The time has gone by; and perhaps I was a little hasty in the hopes I held out. I had partly deceived myself.’
‘Never mind. I wish to know what it was,’ she said impatiently.
‘It can’t matter now. Well, there’s no harm in mentioning it. Naturally you went out of your way to suppose it was something dishonourable. Nothing of the kind; I had an idea that you might come to terms with an Australian who was looking out for actresses for a theatre in Melbourne—that was all. But he wasn’t quite the man I took him for. I doubt whether it could have been made as profitable as I thought at first.’
‘You expect me to believe that story?’
‘Not unless you like. It’s some time since you put any faith in my goodwill. The only reason I didn’t speak plainly was because I felt sure that the mention of a foreign country would excite your suspicions. You have always attributed evil motives to me rather than good. However, this is not the time to speak of such things. I sympathise with you—deeply. Will you tell me if I can—can help you at all?’