"Tell you! what is there to tell you? I should think the veriest infant would have known she oughtn't to come here."
"I should think an infant would know nothing," with dignity. "All your scientific researches have left you, I'm afraid, very ignorant. And I should think that the very first thing even an infant would do, if she could walk, would be to go straight to her guardian when in trouble."
"At this hour?"
"At any hour. What," throwing out her hands expressively, "is a guardian for, if it isn't to take care of people?"
The professor gives it up. The heat of battle has overcome him. With a deep breath he drops into a chair, and begins to wonder how long it will be before happy death will overtake him.
But in the meantime, whilst sitting on a milestone of life waiting for that grim friend, what is to be done with her? If—Good heavens! if anyone had seen her come in!
"Who opened the door for you?" demands he abruptly.
"A great big fat woman with a queer voice! Your Mrs. Mulcahy of course. I remember your telling me about her."
Mrs. Mulcahy undoubtedly. Well, the professor wishes now he had told his ward more about her. Mrs. Mulcahy he can trust, but she—awful thought— will she trust him? What is she thinking now?
"I said, 'Is Mr. Curzon at home?' and she said, 'Well I niver!' So I saw she was a kindly, foolish, poor creature with no sense, and I ran past her, and up the stairs, and I looked into one room where there were lights but you weren't there, and then I ran on again until I saw the light under your door, and, "brightening, "there you were!"