“It is certainly somewhat strange,” the old man agreed. “Girls at Cunnington’s are not often discharged in that manner. Cunnington himself is always most lenient. Have you seen him?”
“Yes; and he absolutely refuses any information.”
“In that case, Mr Barclay, I don’t see very well how I can assist you. The management and organisation of the concern are left to him, as managing director. I really cannot interfere.”
“But was it not through you that Marion, without previous experience or apprenticeship, was engaged there?”
“Yes; I have some recollection of sending a line of recommendation to Cunnington,” was the millionaire’s response. “But, of course, my interest ended there. My secretary asked me to write the note, and I did so.”
“Then you really cannot obtain for me the information I desire?”
“But why are you so inquisitive—eh?” snapped the old man. “Surely the lady will tell you the reason of her dismissal!”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“A fact which is—well—rather curious—shall we designate it?” the old man remarked meaningly.
“You mean to imply that her instant dismissal has cast a slur upon her character, and that she fears to meet me lest she be compelled to tell me the truth?” he said slowly as the suggestion dawned upon him. “Ah! I see. You refuse to help me, Mr Statham, because—because I love her.”