She was casting about to invent a last dying speech for her mother, when Doctor Glasson interrupted.
"If your aunt wishes to place you here, it might perhaps be managed, for a consideration.

Just now we have no room for-er--non-paying children.
But you began by asking for Arthur Miles." "Surname Chandon." "Yes--quite so--Chandon." He picked up a pencil and a half-sheet of paper from the desk, and wrote the name.

"Born at Kingsand--I think you said Kingsand?
Do you happen to know where Kingsand is?
In what county, for instance ?" But Tilda had begun to scent danger again, she hardly knew why, and contented herself with shaking her head.
"Someone wants to see him.

Who ?" "She's--an invalid," Tilda admitted.
"Not your aunt ?" "She's a--a _friend_ of my aunt's." Doctor Glasson pulled out a watch and compared it with the clock on the mantelshelf.

While he did so Tilda stole a look up at his face, and more than ever it seemed to her to resemble a double trap--its slit of a mouth constructed to swallow anything that escaped between nose and chin.
"Your aunt is far from punctual.