“Two chaises to-night, sir, Moggridge says. Sir Harry Payne and Sir Matthew Bray.”
“That will do. Well, old lady?”
“It can’t be for Claire, Jo-si-ah, I’m sure,” cried Mrs Barclay. “She wouldn’t look at that miserable fop.”
“Suppose he is jackal for Rockley, old lady?”
“Oh, Jo-si-ah, don’t. It must be for her sister May.”
“No, I think not. She and Burnett have got on all right lately, and Payne hasn’t been near her, that I know. Look here, old woman, I won’t believe it if I can help it, but it looks very much as if Claire is really going off to-night.”
“Then she shan’t,” cried Mrs Barclay, beginning to cry. “If the poor girl has been worked upon just when she was poor and miserable, and has been weak enough to consent, she shall find she has got a friend who will stand by her, and give her good advice, and stop her. Jo-si-ah, I love that girl as if she was my own child—and—”
“Well?”
“I shall go down to their house and see her and talk to her, and I shall stop with her till I know she’s safe. That is, mind, if it’s true. But it ain’t.”
“Well,” said Barclay, “you shall do so, for I don’t want her to go wrong. Only mind this, it is suspicious that she has not been near you lately.”