“I believe he lives somewhere in Westminster,” said Tanner, “that’s all I know about him; and if this be all you had to say it might have been said in the coffee-room.”
“It is not all that I have to say,” said Sybil; “and I beseech you, sir, listen to me. I know where Gerard lives: I am his daughter, and the same roof covers our heads. But I wish to know where they meet to-night—you understand me;” and she looked at his wife, who had resumed her police reports; “‘tis urgent.
“I don’t know nothing about Gerard,” said Tanner, “except that he comes here and goes away again.”
“The matter on which I would see him,” said Sybil, “is as urgent as the imagination can conceive, and it concerns you as well as himself; but if you know not where I can find him”—and she moved as if about to retire—“‘tis of no use.”
“Stop.” said Tanner, “you can tell it to me.”
“Why so? You know not where he is; you cannot tell it to him.”
“I don’t know that,” said Tanner. “Come, let’s have it out; and if it will do him any good. I’ll see if we can’t manage to find him.”
“I can impart my news to him and no one else,” said Sybil. “I am solemnly bound.”
“You can’t have a better counseller than Tanner,” urged his wife, getting curious; “you had better tell us.”
“I want no counsel; I want that which you can give me if you choose—information. My father instructed me that if certain circumstances occurred it was a matter of the last urgency that I should see him this evening and before nine o’clock, I was to call here and obtain from you the direction where to find him; the direction,” she added in a lowered tone, and looking Tanner full in the face, “where they hold their secret council to-night.”