“Give me your address,” he said, “I will do what I can.”
Francis tore a leaf from his pocket-book and wrote a few words upon it.
“That will find me at any time,” he said. “One moment, Trent. When I saw you first you were with—a lady.”
“Well!”
“I have been away from England so long,” Francis continued slowly, “that my memory has suffered. Yet that lady's face was somehow familiar. May I ask her name?”
“Miss Ernestine Wendermott,” Trent answered slowly.
Francis threw away his cigarette and lit another.
“Thank you,” he said.