“I don’t believe that Mrs. Garlett was ever useful,” he said curtly.
“Oh, yes, she was! In her queer way Emily was a very devoted daughter to that horrid old father of hers. And she’s made Harry Garlett.”
Again the spirit of contradiction seized him.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he exclaimed. “Harry Garlett’s the sort of chap who’d have got on far better as a bachelor than as a married man. His wife’s money has ruined him—that’s my view of it! There’s a lot more in Garlett than people think. If he hadn’t married that poor, sickly woman he might have done some real work in the world.”
“Dr. Maclean,” said Miss Prince abruptly, “I’m anxious about Agatha Cheale.”
“So am I, Miss Prince.”
He lowered his voice, for he didn’t want some stray gardener’s boy to overhear what he was about to say.
“You’re her only friend hereabouts,” he went on. “Do you know that she’s thinking of giving up her job? Mind you keep her up to that!”
She gave him a curious look.
“She’ll never go—as long as Harry Garlett’s here,” she said, almost in a whisper.