A keenness shot from Anthony’s eyes.  “Then, where’s your husband?” he asked.

She made a sad attempt at smiling.  “He is abroad.”

“How about his relations?  Ain’t there one among ’em to write for you when you’re ill?”

“He...  Yes, he has relatives.  I could not ask them.  Oh!  I am not strong, uncle; if you will only leave following me so with questions; but tell me, tell me what I want to know.”

“Well, then, you tell me where your husband banks,” returned Anthony.

“Indeed, I cannot say.”

“Do you,” Anthony stretched out alternative fingers, “do you get money from him to make payments in gold, or, do you get it in paper?”

She stared as in terror of a pit-fall.  “Paper,” she said at a venture.

“Well, then, name your Bank.”

There was no cunning in her eye as she answered:  “I don’t know any bank, except the Bank of England.”

“Why the deuce didn’t you say so at once—­eh?” cried Anthony.  “He gives you bank-notes.  Nothing better in the world.  And he a’n’t been givin’ you many lately—­is that it?  What’s his profession, or business?”

“He is...he is no profession.”

“Then, what is he?  Is he a gentleman?”

“Yes,” she breathed plaintively.

“Your husband’s a gentleman.  Eh?—­and lost his money?”

“Yes.”

“How did he lose it?”

The poor victim of this pertinacious interrogatory now beat about within herself for succour.  “I must not say,” she replied.

“You’re going to try to keep a secret, are ye?” said Anthony; and she, in her relief at the pause to her torment, said:  “I am,” with a little infantile, withering half-smile.

“Well, you’ve been and kept yourself pretty secret,” the old man pursued.  “I suppose your husband’s proud?  He’s proud, ain’t he?  He’s of a family, I’ll be bound.  Is he of a family?  How did he like your dressing up like a mill’ner gal to come down in the City and see me?”

Dahlia’s guile was not ready.  “He didn’t mind,” she said.

“He didn’t mind, didn’t he?  He don’t mind your cutting of your hair so?—­didn’t mind that?”

She shook her head.  “No.”

Anthony was down upon her like a hawk.

“Why, he’s abroad!”

“Yes; I mean, he did not see me.”

With which, in a minute, she was out of his grasp; but her heart beat thick, her lips were dry, and her thoughts were in disorder.

“Then, he don’t know you’ve been and got shaved, and a poll like a turnip-head of a thief?  That’s something for him to learn, is it?”

The picture of her beauty gone, seared her eyes like heated brass.  She caught Anthony’s arm with one firm hand to hold him silent, and with the other hand covered her sight and let the fit of weeping pass.