“Perhaps your sister was tired of the place—too much hard work. Thought to better herself.”
“My sister was, like myself, much indebted to you, Mr Statham,” was Rolfe’s reply. “If she has been discharged in disgrace, it is, I feel confident, through no fault of her own. Therefore, I beg of you, to ask fit. Cunnington to make full inquiry.”
“What is the use? It is Cunnington himself who engages the hands and discharges them,” replied Statham evasively. “I can’t interfere.”
“But,” Rolfe argued, “for the sake of my sister’s good name you will surely do me this one small favour?”
“I have already seen Barclay, who says he’s engaged to her. Call on him, and he’ll explain what I have already said and the inquiry I have already made,” replied the old man in growing impatience.
“But weeks have gone by, and you’ve received no reply from Cunnington. He does not usually treat you with such discourtesy.”
“I can only think that he acted as his own judgment directed him,” the millionaire replied. “You know how strict the rules are that govern shop-assistants, and I suppose he could not favour your sister any more than the others.”
“Marion wanted no favours,” he declared. “She never asked one of anybody at Oxford Street. She only desires justice and troth—and I mean to have them for her.”
“Then go and see Cunnington for yourself,” snapped the old man. “I’ve done all I can do. If your sister chooses to go away and hide herself, how can I help it?”
“But she was sent away?” cried Rolfe in anger. “Sent away in disgrace, and I intend to discover what charge there is against her—and the truth concerning it?”