At that moment Mrs Williams entered, delighted to see us back again, for when we had left, Tibbie had, at my suggestion, paid rent for the rooms for a month in advance and explained that we were returning.
“Two gentlemen came to inquire for you a week ago, Mr Morton,” she exclaimed, addressing me. “They first asked whether Mrs Morton was at home, and I explained that she was away. They then inquired for you, and appeared to be most inquisitive.”
“Inquisitive? About what?” asked my pseudo wife.
“Oh! all about your private affairs, mum. But I told them I didn’t know anything, of course. One of the men was a foreigner.”
“What did they ask you?” I inquired in some alarm.
“Oh, how long you’d been with me, where you worked, how long you’d been married—and all that. Most impudent, I call it. Especially as they were strangers.”
“How did you know they were strangers?”
“Because they took the photograph of my poor brother Harry to be yours—so they couldn’t have known you.”
“Impostors, I expect,” I remarked, in order to allay the good woman’s suspicions. “No doubt they were trying to get some information from you in order to use it for their own purposes. Perhaps to use my wife’s name, or mine, as an introduction somewhere.”
“Well, they didn’t get much change out of me, I can tell you,” she laughed. “I told them I didn’t know them and very soon showed them the door. I don’t like foreigners. When I asked them to leave their names they looked at each other and appeared confused. They asked where you were, and I told them you were in Ireland.”