“It won’t be so crowded upstairs this early.” She led him up to a small table in a corner. “Now tell me.”
But as Mr. Pinkerton looked at her she seemed so very young, and so unhappy, that his throat closed up. All he could do was blink at her like a bewildered owl. She put her hand out impulsively across the table and on his sleeve.
“I know it sounds dreadful, but it’s not really. It can’t be. There must have been some terrible misunderstanding. Because, don’t you see, Mother’s always told me wonderful things about him. She’d never have done if he’d been so awful—or if he’d even been capable of doing anything awful. There’s something wrong, somewhere.”
Her small pointed chin was high and her eyes bright and clear.
“Do you know what he’s supposed to have done?”
In the face of her passi
