“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said. “But are you Lady Grote, or some such name?”
“Yes.”
“Then Mr. Kuhlmann left a note for you. It’s on the rack, I think, for I noticed the name, seeing as Lady Grote wasn’t one of our ladies. I remember his putting it there to be called for. If you are wanting it to-night, my lady, I could step down and fetch it you!”
“I should be very much obliged to you,” said she.
She hustled all the lately released prisoners of her mind back into their dungeon again. She refused to allow herself to think till she knew more. As she herded them in, they chattered together, one saying, “Perhaps he is ill”; another: “He would have told her if he was ill.” Another wildly, amazingly suggested: “He knew he wouldn’t be able to sing to-night. Perhaps he has gone down to Grote already; perhaps she will find him there.” Another said: “It is all a mistake; he will come out in one moment, and we will all go down to Grote together.” But she swept them all into confinement again, and just waited for the note to be brought. In that interval she did not do more than notice trivial things; her chauffeur had got a white smudge on his collar; her footman was about the same height as Robin, and had the same low, straight shoulders; she found her purse, and took out of it five shillings to give the porter. Then she heard his steps coming up the stone stairs; he stumbled, and came out into the street, dusting his knees, with a note in his hand.
“I am very much obliged to you,” she said, and gave him his tip.
The footman came to the door.
“To Grote, my lady?” he asked.
“Shut the door and get up,” she said. “I will tell you in a moment.”
She turned on the light again, opened the note and read it.