"Mother," he said, "you should not talk of these things before Miss Wentworth; you have made her look quite ill. Remember, she may not be so strong-minded as you are."
"No, no!" gasped Margaret, in a choking voice. "I—I—wish to hear of this. Tell me, Mrs. Austin, what was the name of the murdered man?"
"Joseph Wilmot."
"Joseph Wilmot!" repeated Margaret, slowly. She had always known her father by the name of James Wentworth; but what more likely than that Wilmot was his real name! She had good reason to suspect that Wentworth was a false one.
"I'll lend you a newspaper," Mrs. Austin said, good-naturedly, "if you really want to learn the particulars of this murder."
"I do, if you please."
Mrs. Austin took a weekly paper from amongst some others that were scattered upon a side-table. She folded up this paper and handed it to Margaret.
"Give Miss Wentworth a glass of wine, mother," exclaimed Clement Austin; "I'm sure all this talk about the murder has upset her."
"No, no, indeed!" Margaret answered, "I would rather not take anything. I want to get home quickly. Good evening, Mrs. Austin."
She tried to say something more, but her voice failed her. She had been in the habit of shaking hands with Mrs. Austin and Clement when she left them; and the cashier had always accompanied her to the gate, and had sometimes lingered with her there in the dusk, prolonging some conversation that had been begun in the drawing-room; but to-night she hurried from the room before the widow could remonstrate with her. Clement followed her into the hall.