“Yes—she is. What name shall I say, sir?”
“Anthony Bathurst. Although I doubt if she’ll remember it—tell her somebody wants to see her in reference to the late Miss Delaney—one of the gentlemen whom she saw before at Miss Delaney’s home.”
“I’ll tell her, sir.” The woman speedily bustled back. “Come this way, sir, if you please?—I’ll take you into the front room. That’s the best place for you to go. Miss Kerr will be with you in a moment or two.”
When she arrived, Anthony saw that the time that had elapsed since their previous interview had only served to intensify the outward and visible signs of her profound grief. To-day she was showing him a face heavily lined with the marks of care and sorrow.
“Good morning, Miss Kerr.”
“Good morning, Mr. Bathurst.”
“I told you that I might want to communicate with you again, didn’t I? Well, here I am. There wasn’t time to write to you—I’m returning to town this afternoon. But before I go there’s one more question I particularly wish to ask you.” He smiled in the best Bathurst manner.
“What is that, sir?” inquired “Pinkie” listlessly.
“She’s taking her trouble badly,” thought Anthony to himself. “She needs to pull herself together.”
“Just this point, Miss Kerr. I want you to cast your mind back to the occasion when Lal Singh—the Indian—called upon Miss Delaney—the incident of which you told us the other day. The point I want to emphasise is this. Did he speak in English the whole time he was here?”