, and so might be supposed, I think, to know you, if anyone might. And here are John and Dainty, too—they''ll swear to any kind of mischief with money in, you may be sure. And here am I—that met you at Briar, when you were maid to Miss Maud Lilly, later my wife. You''ve seen, haven''t you, what gentlemen''s words are worth?'' He pretends to be struck with the thought. ''But of course you have! For in a madhouse in the country are a pair of doctors—they''ll remember you, I think. For didn''t you, only yesterday, give them your hand and make them a curtsey, and stand in a good light before them, for quite twenty minutes, answering questions to the name of Susan?''
He lets me consider that. Then he says, ''All we ask is that, when the moment arrives, you give the performance over again, before a lawyer. What have you to lose? Dear Maud, you have nothing: no friends in London, no money to your name—why, not so much as a name!''
I have put my fingers to my mouth. ''Suppose,'' I say, ''I won''t do it? Suppose, when your lawyer comes, I tell him—''
''Tell him what? Tell him how you plotted to swindle an innocent girl?—looked on, while the doctors dosed her and carried her off? Hmm? What do you think he will make of that?''
I sit and watch him speak. At last I say, in a whisper: ''Are you truly so wicked as this?'' He shrugs. I turn to Mrs Sucksby. ''And you,'' I say. ''Are you so wicked? To think, of Sue— Are you so vile?''