Mrs. Bread gave a soft moan. “And you have enticed me up into this strange place to tell you?”
“Don’t be alarmed,” said Newman. “I won’t say a word that shall be disagreeable to you. Tell me as it suits you, and when it suits you. Only remember that it was Mr. Valentin’s last wish that you should.”
“Did he say that?”
“He said it with his last breath—‘Tell Mrs. Bread I told you to ask her.’”
“Why didn’t he tell you himself?”
“It was too long a story for a dying man; he had no breath left in his body. He could only say that he wanted me to know—that, wronged as I was, it was my right to know.”
“But how will it help you, sir?” said Mrs. Bread.
“That’s for me to decide. Mr. Valentin believed it would, and that’s why he told me. Your name was almost the last word he spoke.”
Mrs. Bread was evidently awe-struck by this statement; she shook her clasped hands slowly up and down. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, “if I take a great liberty. Is it the solemn truth you are speaking? I must ask you that; must I not, sir?”
“There’s no offense. It is the solemn truth; I solemnly swear it. Mr. Valentin himself would certainly have told me more if he had been able.”