Because, as I say, there isn't much that I know."
"Do you mind telling me?" suggested the detective. "That is, what you told him?"
"No, I don't mind. I think, perhaps, what I told him may have something to do with all this, though, of course, I can't see how or why. Well, I told him that all I knew was that I was born in Canada. My father, I always understood, had gone out to Canada some little time before I was born there. His name was Matthew Mortover. He went to Canada from England, but I don't know from what part. He never spoke of England nor of any relations here: he was a reserved man: mother said he'd a grievance against England or something in England. But when he died last year, she was all for coming back to England, and we came—she and I. Then she died, and there was next to no money, and I had to earn my own living. And I got this work I've told you of. That's what I told Mr. Wraypoole."
"No more?"
""There's no more to tell—it's all I know."
"Was Mr. Wraypoole interested?"
"He seemed so. He asked questions, but I couldn't answer them. You see, I knew nothing, because father never told anything, even to my mother. She knew no more than I did; he
