“Ah, that’s what I’ve come about,” said Wilton, gazing at the other sternly. “Where is she?”
Garstang looked at him blankly for a few moments.
“Where is she?” he said at last. “What do you mean?”
“What I say: where is Kate Wilton?”
“Where is she?” cried Garstang, changing his manner, and speaking now with a display of eagerness very different from his calm dignified way of a few minutes before. “Why, you don’t mean to say that she has gone?”
“Yes, I do mean to say that she has gone.”
“Bravo!” cried Garstang, putting down the leg he had been nursing, and giving it a hearty slap. “The brave little thing! I should not have thought that she had it in her.”
“That won’t do, John Garstang,” said Wilton, sourly; “and it’s of no use to act. The law’s your profession—not acting. Now then, I want to know where she is.”
“How should I know, man? She was not placed in my charge.”
“You know, sir, because it was in your interest to know. This isn’t the first time I’ve known you play your cards, but you’re not playing them well: so you had better throw up your hand.”