“Please, go on,” said Leslie.
“Well, I dismissed him a month ago for improper conduct. I expect that chap will go to the dogs as fast as he can. I am the last man, Leslie, to uphold young rascals of that sort. He is a scoundrel, and the least said about him the better. The girl is different. I had letters from her now and then, and she always spoke of you with great affection. She never mentioned you by name, and I never guessed until yesterday, when she called to see me, that you were the girl, her roomfellow, she said, whom she liked better than anybody else at St.
Wode’s—that you were the same girl whom I cared for more than aught else in the world.”
“Oh, you don’t,” said Leslie. There was a break in her voice.
“I do, child. You always seemed to me to be Jenny come back again; but there, once for all, I will not drag Jenny into this. Annie Colchester called at my office yesterday; she brought me a note from you. By the way, here it is.”
“Don’t show it to me,” said Leslie suddenly.
“Don’t show you your own letter? Why not?”
“Because—oh, don’t ask me.” She felt cold and sick. If Mr. Parker really showed her that letter, written by Annie but signed in her name, she knew that she could not trust herself, she knew that she must say something which would betray her miserable friend. The one rope she had to cling to was a blind sense of honor. She would give Annie a chance, she would not betray her, she would get Annie herself to make her own confession.
“What train must you go back by?” she said suddenly.
“You look quite ill, child. I see you cannot put the thing straight, as I had hoped just for a moment: but, after I have asked you one or two questions, we will never allude to the matter again. Was it an ordinary debt you wanted the money for?”