‘How d’ye do, Mr. Wyndham?’ says she.
Wyndham gives her his hand mechanically, murmuring the usual meaningless, but courteous, words of greeting that are expected of one, no matter what worries lie on the heart, troubling and mystifying it. And Wyndham, in spite of his reputation of being one of the smartest barristers in Dublin, has, to tell the truth, been considerably mystified of late.
The day after he left Ella, he had gone to that part of Dublin described by her as the place where the man Moore lived. A squalid place, though still with an air of broken respectability about it, and with quite an extraordinary number of ill-dressed urchins playing about the hall doorsteps. They were of that class, that though their garments were almost in rags they had still shoes and stockings, of sorts, on their feet, and an attempt at a frayed collar round their necks. It gave Wyndham a sense of disgust to think that the girl who was now living in his dainty cottage had once lived in such an atmosphere as this; and when he had gone down the hideous road twenty yards or so, the certainty that had begun at the first yard—that she could never have lived there—had deepened. But this idea gave him little comfort. If she had ever lived here, it was only, to say the least of it, deplorable. If she had not lived here, she had lied to him, and was an impostor. And if the latter supposition was true, he had rented his cottage to an impostor, and a clever one, too. She had taken him in, beyond all doubt. And he was looked upon as rather a bright and shining light amongst his confrères at the Bar and at the University Club, and in the various other resorts for rising young men in Dublin.
When he knocked at the door of the house mentioned by her, he told himself that of course he had come on a fool’s errand; yet, when the woman who answered the door—a highly respectable person, and frightfully dirty, in a respectable way—told him ‘that no Moores lived here,’ he felt as though someone had struck him. He must have looked extremely taken back, because the respectably-dirty lady roused herself sufficiently from the dignity that seemed to cling to her as closely as her grime, and condescended to say she had only been there a short time, ‘an’ p’raps Mrs. Morgan, nex’ door, could give him the information he was lookin’ for.’
Wyndham had taken the hint—he scarcely knew why—and had gone ‘nex’ door,’ to receive, as he honestly believed, the same answer. But no! Mrs. Morgan, in a tight-fitting gown, draggled at the tail, and with her sparse front locks in curl-papers (she said ‘curling-tongs an’ methylated spirit played the very juice wid your hair’), gave him a very handsome amount of news about the missing Moore.
She was a very genial person, in spite of the curl-papers—or perhaps because of them—and she invited Wyndham into her ‘best front’ in the most cordial way—even though she knew he was not going to take it.
Yes; of course she had known Mr. Moore. He used to live next door, but some months ago his wife died, and he had seemed a little unsettled like since.
‘There was a girl?’
‘Oh yes—Ella Moore.’
‘Their daughter?’