“What paper was that you gave to the girl?” he said roughly.
“The one you ought to have given,” said Matt, resenting the question, and the tone of voice in which it was asked.
“What do you mean?” said the stranger.
Old Matt was weak and ill, or he would have retorted angrily; but he only said, “An address.”
“What address?” said the juryman dubiously.
“Well, then, yours, if you must know,” said Matt.
The juryman looked keenly at the old printer, who met his gaze without flinching. “It was easy to remember,” said the former.
“I know that,” said Matt, “but I thought she’d forget; and you seemed to mean well by the poor lass. I watched you, sir, at the inquest.”
“God knows I do, my man,” said the juryman softly; “and I ask your pardon for playing the spy; for I must confess to having had my doubts of you.”
“It’s all right, sir; and we can cry quits,” said Matt. “I had my doubts, too; and was in two minds about writing down the address; but if you can do anything towards saving the country the cost of another inquest, for God’s sake do. No, thank you, sir; I don’t want your money. I don’t like taking it where I haven’t earned it. It’s a weak point of mine, and has stood in the way of my comfort more than once: and I’m old now, sir, and can’t break myself of bad habits. Good-day, sir.”