"Oh, gone to stay with some friends, I suppose. I'll trouble you to give me their address, Mr. Heron, please."
He rose, as he spoke, as if he meant starting on the moment, but he sank into the chair again as John Heron said in a sepulchral voice:
"I should most willingly do so, Mr. Wordley, but I regret to say I do not know where she is."
"You—don't—know—where—she is!" said Mr. Wordley, anger and amazement struggling for the upper hand. "What the devil I beg your pardon, Mrs. Heron! You must excuse an old man with a short temper and a touch of the gout—but I don't understand you! Why don't you know?"
Mrs. Heron began to sniff, and her worthy husband drew himself up and tried to look dignified, and failed utterly in the attempt.
"Such language—" he began.
"Confound my language, sir!" snapped the old lawyer, his face growing red. "Be good enough to answer my question!"
"Ida left our hospitable roof about a fortnight ago," said Mr. Heron. "She left like a thief in the night—that is to say, morning. I regret to say that she left no message, no word of farewell, behind her. I had occasion to rebuke her on the preceding night, and, following the dictates of an ungodly nature and a perverse pride, she chose to leave the shelter of this roof—"
Mr. Wordley sprang to his feet, his passion rendering him speechless for a moment.
"You rebuke Miss Ida! Are you out of your mind? And pray, what had she done?"