He looked at her, suspicion in his gaze. Her manner convinced him that by some means or other she had indeed stumbled upon what he had hoped was hidden. It was not a moment to ask her by what means she had done so. And, equally, it was no moment for denial.
“Why should you help me?” he demanded. He could not afford blindly to trust any one. “If you think you have found something irregular about me why do you offer aid? In effect you have accused me of being a criminal. Don’t you know there’s a law against helping one?”
“I’m one, too,” she said, to his amazement.
“Nonsense!” he snapped. He was too keen a judge of character to believe that this meek old creature had fallen into evil ways.
“Do you remember,” she said steadily—and he could see she was intensely nervous—“that I told you I had no children when I applied for this place?”
“Yes, yes,” he answered impatiently. It seemed so trivial a matter now.
“Well, I lied,” she returned, “I had a daughter at the point of death. I needed the position and I heard you telling other applicants you wanted some one with no ties.”
“That’s hardly criminal,” Anthony Trent declared.
“Wait,” she wailed, “I did worse. You remember when you furnished this place you sent me to pay for some rugs—nearly two hundred dollars it was?”
“And you had your pocket picked. I remember.”