''Shut up, Maud.''
''Why? So you may kill me in silence? Go on and do it. Then live with the deed upon your conscience. I suppose you have one?''
''Not one,'' he says, quickly and lightly, ''that would be troubled by the murder of you, I assure you.'' He presses his fingers to his eyes. ''Mrs Sucksby, however, would not like it.''
''Her,'' I say, with a glance at the woman. She is still gazing at the soap, the brush, not speaking. ''You do everything, at her word?''
''Everything in this case.'' He says it meaningfully; and when I hesitate, not understanding, he goes on: ''Listen to me, Maud. The scheme was hers, all of it. From start to finish, hers. And, villain that I am, I am not so great a swindler that I would swindle her of that.''
His face seems honest—but then, it has seemed honest to me before. ''You are lying,'' I say.
''No. This is the truth.''
''Her scheme.'' I cannot believe it. ''She that sent you to Briar, to my uncle? And before that, to Paris? To Mr Hawtrey?''
''She that sent me to you. No matter all the twisting paths I took to reach you. I might have taken them anyway, and not known what lay at the end of them. I might have passed you by! Perhaps many men have. They have not had Mrs Sucksby, guiding their steps.''