All the suspicions of the little white haired old lady seemed to be revived by Sydney’s manner of receiving the intelligence she gave him.
“Maybe I’ve made a mistake about it,” she said, pinching nervously at the edges of a white apron she wore. “It may be another man of the same name.”
“Is this Maurice Darley dead?” asked Sydney, paying no attention to her disturbed equanimity.
“I don’t know. Maybe he is,” was the reply.
“When did you see him last?” went on Sydney.
“How do you know I ever saw him?” asked the old lady quickly.
Sydney began to lose his patience.
“You seem to think I mean you some harm,” he said. “You are quite wrong there. It is a matter of money, of a fortune that belongs to Mr. Maurice Parley, if I can find him.”
The old lady looked at him keenly.
“That’s what caused all his trouble,” she said slowly. “Fortunes. He was always thinking of them.”