“Why didn’t you tell me of this before, Murchison?”
“Tell you what?”
“About the child.”
Murchison glanced at him blankly.
“Well, it was my own affair.”
“Didn’t like to bother any one, eh? You never ought to have kept the youngster in this beast of a town. I could have told you a lot about Wilton if you had asked.”
John Tugler, like many amiable but rather coarse-fibred people, was often most brusque when meaning to be kind. Moreover, he had a certain measure of authority to maintain, and for the maintenance of authority it was customary for him to wax aggressive.
“I tried to get the child away.”
Murchison spoke monotonously, yet with effort.
“We wrote to her grandmother, but the old lady was ill, and put us off with excuses. The child was only ailing then. It was a matter of money. The only money I could lay my hands on was a small sum deposited with the post-office in the child’s own name. And when I got the money—I saw that it would be no good.”