“I hear, father.”
“Pay them back your money if you like, but don’t ask me for another cent, or I’ll tell the truth—do you hear?”
“I hear, father,” she replied, with a sob.
“Open the door for her, Trimmer.”
Trimmer darted to the door as if his politeness had been questioned, and bowed the daughter out.
When her footsteps had died away, he walked to the bed and looked down contemptuously at the mumbling creature. He surveyed him critically, as a doctor might look at a feverish patient.
“You’re overdoing it,” he said. “You’re getting foolish.”
“That’s right, Trimmer—that’s right. You abuse me, too!” whined the old man, bursting into tears. “Isn’t it bad enough to have one’s child a thief, without servants bullying one?”
“You are the last person to talk to Mrs. Swinton about stealing.”
“Keep your tongue still!”