“I never saw her myself,—at least I can’t be sure that I did. There was somebody of the same name—Clara—a friend of Polkenhorne’s wife.”
Scawthorne appeared to pay no attention; he mused with a wrinkled brow.
“If only I could put something between Kirkwood and the girl,” remarked Joseph, as if absently. “I shouldn’t wonder if it could be made worth some one’s while to give a bit of help that way. Don’t you think so?”
In the tone of one turning to a different subject, Scawthorne asked suddenly:
“What use are you going to make of your father’s offer?”
“Well, I’m not quite sure. Shouldn’t wonder if I go in for filters.”
“Filters?”
Joseph explained. In the capacity of “commission agent”—denomination which includes and apologises for such a vast variety of casual pursuits—he had of late been helping to make known to the public a new filter, which promised to be a commercial success.
