“Because it is judicious not to offend him,” she said. “One girl did, and within a week she was discharged.”
“But such truckling to a greasy, oily-mouthed tailor’s dummy is simply nauseating,” I cried fiercely. “Do you mean to say that you actually have to smile and be amiable to this man—perhaps even to flirt with him—in order to save yourself from being driven to death?”
“Certainly!” she answered, quite frankly.
“And who is this man?” I inquired, perhaps a trifle harshly.
“The man with whom you saw me on that night when you followed me from Aldersgate Street,” she responded.
“That tall, thin man!” I cried, amazed. “The man who was your lover!”
She nodded, and her eyes were again downcast.
I sat staring at her in amazement. I had never thought of that.
“What’s his name?” I asked quickly.
“Henry Hibbert.”