"Her name?—I never found out, except Margaret—I don't know; but I believe they did not want their name told."
"That did not look well—did it?" suggested Cleve.
"Well, no more it generally does; but it is not her fault. It was—in fact it was—for I did find it out, I may as well tell you—old Sir Booth Fanshawe, you know he's broken—not worth a guinea—and always running about from place to place to avoid pursuit, in fact. It can't signify, you know, now that I think of it, mentioning him, because, of course, he's gone somewhere else long ago."
So said romantic little Sedley, and Cleve sneered.
"I see you can tell a fib on occasion, Tom, like another man. So you found out the name, and knew it all the time you were protesting ignorance. And who told you that? People here thought Sir Booth had gone to Italy."
"Well, it was—but you mustn't tell him I told you. There was a Jew fellow down at Malory, with a writ and a lot of fellows to nab him; but the old fellow was off; and the Jew, thinking that Wynne Williams knew where he was, came to his office and offered him a hatfull of money to tell, and he was going to kick him out; and that's the way he found out it was old Sir Booth; and he is awfully afraid of getting into a scrape about it, if the old people heard who the tenant was."
"So he would—the worst scrape he ever was in, with my uncle, at all events. And that d—d Larkin would get into the management of everything, I suppose. I hope, you have not been telling everyone?"
"Not a soul—not a human being."
"There are some of the Cardyllian people that hardly come under that term; and, by Jove, if you breathe it to one of them, it's all over the town, and my uncle will be sure to hear it; and poor Wynne Williams!—you'll be the ruin of him, very likely."
"I tell you, except to you, I swear to you, I haven't mentioned it to a soul on earth," exclaimed Tom.