“I can, perhaps, supply that,” said Mr. M’Kinlay; “at least, if it be the town she stopped at while the yacht is being repaired.”
“Exactly so. What’s the name of it?”
“Here it is,” said he, producing a small clasped note-book, from which, after a brief search, he read, “Mademoiselle Heinzleman’s address will meanwhile be, ‘Carrick’s Royal Hotel, Westport, Ireland.’”
“What a blessing is red tapery after all!” said she, in a sort of soliloquy. “If there were not these routine people, what would become of us?”
“I am charmed that even my blemishes should have rendered you a service,” said he, with a tingling cheek.
“I don’t think my sister knows you are here,” said she, ignoring all his remarks.
“I suspect Rickards must have told her,” said he, half stiffly.
“Just as likely not; he is getting so stupid—so old.”
This was a very cruel speech to be so emphasized, for Rickards was only one year Mr. M’Kinlay’s senior.
“He looks active, alert, and I’d not guess him above forty-six, or seven.”