"Maitland--Sir Thomas Maitland of Cuckfield."
"She'll be Lady Maitland?"
"To be sure."
"And what do you call--her now?" the clock-maker asked. He seemed to find a difficulty in pronouncing the last words.
"Clark--Mistress Oriana Clark," Hawkesworth answered. "She's at Ipswich, or was, and should be here to-morrow."
Grocott's nose curled at the name. "And what are you going to get out of this?" he continued, eyeing the other with intense suspicion.
The Irishman hesitated, but in the end determined to tell the truth, and trust to the other's self-interest. "A wife, and a plum," he said jauntily. "There's a girl, his sister, I'm going to marry; she takes ten thousand out of his share if he marries without his guardians' consent. That's it."
"Lord, you're a rascal!" Grocott ejaculated, and stared in admiration of the other's roguery. "To take ten thousand of my son-in-law's money, and tell me of it to my face. By gole, you're a cool one!"
"You can choose between that and nothing," Hawkesworth answered, confident in his recovered mastery. "You can do nothing without me, you see. No more can Oriana."