“Mr Lorton,” he answered, “you know I would do anything for you I honestly could, for you ’ave been a friend to me many a time, specially when I got into that row with the tax collector, when you be’aved ’andsome. But to speak to the rights of the matter, I can’t say I know the lady’s name wot the parsun is agoin’ to marry: I only has my suspicions like.”
“Well, and whom do you think to be the one?” said I.
“She don’t live far from here!” he said in a stage whisper, dropping his voice, and looking round cautiously, as he pointed along the row of houses composing “the Terrace,” where our most fashionable parishioners resided—our Belgravia, so to speak.
“You don’t mean one of the Miss Dashers?” I said, thinking of Bessie.
“Lord, no!” he replied, “it ain’t one of ‘my lady’s’ young ladies!”
“Then who is it?” I said, getting quite impatient at his tergiversation.
“Oh! she comed here later than them!” he answered, still beating about the bush; “she comed here later than them,” he repeated, nodding his head knowingly.
A sudden fear shot through me. “Is it?—no, it cannot be—is it Miss Clyde?” I asked.
“Ah!” he grunted, oracularly. “You knows best about that, sir!”
“Well, don’t you dare, Shuffler,” I savagely retorted, “to couple that lady’s name with Mr Mawley’s!” I was literally boiling over with fury at the very suspicion:—it was the realisation of my worst fears!