“About twenty—­not quite so much—­and strikingly handsome.”

“H’m.  Position in life?”

“A year ago was on the streets, to put it plainly; since then has been getting her living at laundry-work.”

“H’m.  Name?”

“Ida Starr.”

Mr. Woodstock had been gazing at the toes of his boots, still the same smile on his face.  When he heard the name he ceased to smile, but did not move at all.  Nor did he look up as he asked the next question.

“Is that her real name?”

“I believe so.”

The old man drew up his feet, threw one leg over the other, and began to tap upon his knee with the fingers of one hand.  He was silent for a minute at least.

“What do you know about her?” he then inquired, looking steadily at Waymark, with a gravity which surprised the latter.  “I mean, of her earlier life.  Do you know who she is at all?”

“She has told me her whole story—­a rather uncommon one, full of good situations.”

“What do you mean?”

The words were uttered with such harsh impatience that Waymark started.

“What annoys you?” he asked, with surprise.

“Tell me something of the story,” said the other, regaining his composure, and apparently wishing to affect indifference.  “I have a twinge of that damned rheumatism every now and then, and it makes me rather crusty.  Do you think her story is to be depended upon?”

“Yes, I believe it is.”

And Waymark linked briefly the chief points of Ida’s history, as he knew it, the old man continually interrupting him with questions.

“Now go on,” said Abraham, when he had heard all that Waymark knew, “and explain the scrape she’s got into.”

Waymark did so.

“And you mean to tell me,” Abraham said, before the story was quite finished, “that there’s been nothing more between you than that?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

It was said angrily, and with a blow of the clenched fist on the table.  The old man could no longer conceal the emotion that possessed him.  Waymark looked at him in astonishment, unable to comprehend his behaviour.

“Well if you don’t believe me, of course I can offer no proof; and I know well enough that every presumption is against me.  Still, I tell you the plain fact; and what reason have I for hiding the truth?  If I had been living with the girl, I should have said so, as an extra reason for asking your help in the matter.”

“What help can I give?” asked Woodstock, again cooling down, though his eyes had in them a most unwonted light.  He spoke as if simply asking for information.

“I thought you might suggest something as to modes of defence, and the like.  The expenses I would somehow or other meet myself.  It appears that she will plead not guilty.”

“And what’s your belief?”

“I can’t make up my mind.”