Jill’s heart was like lead. She could not doubt for an instant the truth of what the victim had said. Woven into every inch of the fabric, plainly hall-marked on its surface, she could perceive the signature of Uncle Chris. If he had come and confessed to her himself, she could not have been more certain that he had acted precisely as Mr Pilkington had charged. There was that same impishness, that same bland unscrupulousness, that same pathetic desire to do her a good turn however it might affect anybody else which, if she might compare the two things, had caused him to pass her off on unfortunate Mr Mariner of Brookport as a girl of wealth with tastes in the direction of real estate.
Wally was not so easily satisfied.
“You’ve no proof whatever …”
Jill shook her head.
“It’s true, Wally. I know Uncle Chris. It must be true.”
“But, Jill … !”
“It must be. How else could Uncle Chris have got the money?”
Mr Pilkington, much encouraged by this ready acquiescence in his theories, got under way once more.
“The man’s a swindler! A swindler! He’s robbed me! I have been robbed! He never had any intention of starting a motion-picture company. He planned it all out … !”
Jill cut into the babble of his denunciations. She was sick at heart, and she spoke almost listlessly.