“Certainly not. How should I have known his address? When I saw the newspapers, I went down to Bolton and made inquiries. When I heard your father had been, I concluded you had yourself sent for him. Otherwise, I should, of course, have tried to be useful to you in some way. As it was, I supposed you would scarcely thank me for coming forward.”
It might or might not be the truth, as far as Clara was able to decide. Possibly the information had come from some one else. She knew him well enough to be assured by his tone that nothing more could be elicited from him on that point.
“You are quite recovered, I hope?” Scawthorne added, surveying her as she stood in the obscurity. “In your general health?”
He was courteous, somewhat distant.
“I suppose I’m as well as I shall ever be,” she answered coldly. “I asked you to meet me because I wanted to know what it was you spoke of in your last letters. You got my answer, I suppose.”
“Yes, I received your answer. But—in fact, it’s too late. The time has gone by; and
