Mr. Willis turned it over in his dainty white fingers, and said it must be left for Mr. Amberley, who might be away for a couple of hours. It was uncertain when he might be back.
The telegram was accordingly stuck in the rack, and the bearer went away. It was from Captain Desfrayne, informing Frank Amberley of the sudden death of Gilardoni, the valet.
Unconscious of the tragical revolution which had taken place in Paul Desfrayne’s affairs, the young lawyer pursued his way, planning to return as soon as his immediate business should have been disposed of.
It was not until he was some distance from the office, rattling westward in a hansom, that he remembered he had left no message in case Gilardoni should call early in the afternoon.
It would certainly be desirable to see Madam Guiscardini before fixing any plan with the Italian valet; but could such a thing be hoped for as obtaining an interview with this beautiful tigress, and even granting that she condescended to let herself be spoken with, it was impossible to hope that she would betray a scrap of evidence against herself.
After some trouble, Frank Amberley succeeded in concluding his business with the irascible old gentleman at Blythe Villas, Brompton, to whom he had been despatched.
Coming out from the house, he stood for several minutes on the pavement before he reentered his waiting hansom. He consulted his watch, and found it was yet early—only half-past twelve.
“I can but be refused,” he said to himself. “She must be at home at this hour, I should imagine, and, by the time I reach the place, will have about dressed, I suppose. We can do nothing until she has had the chance of speaking, and she might give me a clue as to the place where her brother may be found.”
Stepping into the hansom, he said:
“Porchester Square.”