She put her head out of the window.
“Number 13, please, cabman.”
“We’ve come past it, miss,” the man answered, with a note of finality in his gruff voice.
“Then turn round and go back there,” she directed.
The man muttered something inaudible, and gathered up the reins. His horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where he was. After a certain amount of manœuvring, however, he was induced to crawl around, and in a few minutes came to stop again before a tall brightly-painted house, which seemed like an oasis of colour and assertive prosperity in a long dingy row. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s.”
Anna promptly alighted with the letter in her hand. The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him. The rest of his attire was nondescript.
“Does Mr. Courtlaw, Mr. Sydney Courtlaw, live here, please?” Anna asked him.
“Not home yet, miss,” the young man replied. “Generally gets here about seven.”
Anna hesitated, and then held out the letter.
“I think that I will leave this letter for him,” she said. “It is from his brother in Paris. Say that I will call again or let him know my address in London.”