He recalled that day, when the parlourmaid had waked him up to tell him that there was “a lady downstairs to see you, sir.” A hatless, very pale lady, who had been pushed in at the door by a man who immediately disappeared. There was no trace of her when he got downstairs; he had gone out on the front steps in his dressing gown to look up and down the street, but without seeing anything. Directly he was dressed, he had gone to Lawrence, and Lawrence had lied impudently and borrowed money. He had said he didn’t know where Rosaleen had gone, or why, or if she would ever return.
He recalled his tremendous two weeks’ battle with Miss Waters. Day after day he had gone to entreat her, to bully, to cajole, to trick her into giving him Rosaleen’s address. And she had always wept bitterly and refused.
“I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone!” she said, over and over. “And you above all! Oh, Mr. Landry! I can’t!”
“Don’t you trust me?” he had demanded. “Do you think I’d annoy or persecute Rosaleen?”
“Of course I don’t!”
“If you’re really her friend,—if you’re thinking of her welfare, you’ll tell me where she is. She may need help.”
In the end he made use of a shameful device—a theatric threat which even now made him blush. He told Miss Waters that if she wouldn’t help him to see Rosaleen, he was going to kill himself; he had even brought an old revolver with him. And to save the life of this young hero, Miss Waters had told him the name of the restaurant where Rosaleen worked.
He recalled his first visit there; how he had sat at one of the tables, watching Rosaleen hurrying about, taking orders, carrying her heavy tray, submissive and alert....
He had waited outside for her for hours. But she wouldn’t let him take her home.
“I’m living with a married sister,” she had told him. “I’m perfectly all right there. But I don’t want you to come there, Mr. Landry!”