‘Thank you, sir. Don’t mention it, sir. No trouble at all. Yes—a very striking young lady indeed, sir. Her ladyship was going to Goring House for a couple of days, so the chauffeur told me. Much obliged, sir. Yes, sir—Lady Laura Moulsford. That’s right, sir—the Duke of Goring’s daughter.’
This same ticket-collector had said all that; and to Mr. Pinner he said not a word. He merely down his long nose looked at him, and when the little man explained that he was the fair young lady’s father he looked at him more glassily than ever. So that presently for very shame Mr. Pinner couldn’t go on standing there asking questions that got no answers, and after lingering awhile uncertainly in the ticket-collector’s neighbourhood, for something told him that this man could throw light on Sally’s disappearance if he would, he went sorrowfully, but unresentfully, away.
Presently he found himself in South Winch. He seemed to have drifted there, not knowing what to do or where to go next, and unable to bear the thought of his lonely shop and of nobody’s letting him know about anything. He had thought it fine and peaceful at first to be independent and at last alone, but it didn’t seem so now. He missed his wife. Nobody now to mind what he did, good or bad. Nobody.
In South Winch he sought out the grocer, so as to get Jocelyn’s address, preferring him to the Post Office because the smell of currants and bacon made him feel less lonely, and, having followed the directions the grocer gave him, found the road and the house, and opened the white gate with deferential trepidation. Timidly at the door he asked if he might say a word to Mr. Luke, and the little maid, at once at ease with his sort of clothes, inquired pleasantly if Mrs. Luke wouldn’t do just as well; better, suggested the little maid, because she was there, and Mr. Jocelyn wasn’t. In fact she offered Mrs. Luke to Mr. Pinner, she pressed her upon him,—a lady he wouldn’t have dreamt of disturbing if left to himself.
So that Mr. Pinner, without apparently in the least wanting to, found himself in a beautiful drawing-room, and there by the fire sat a lady, leaning back on some cushions as though she were tired.
At first he thought she was asleep, and he was beginning to feel extremely awkward when she turned her head and looked at him.
A pale lady. A very pale lady; with a face that seemed all eyes.
‘Beg pardon, mum,’ said Mr. Pinner, wishing he hadn’t come.
The lady went on looking at him. She didn’t move. Her hands were hanging down over the arms of the chair as though she were tired. She just turned her head, but didn’t move else.
‘It’s about Sally,’ said Mr. Pinner. ‘’Appened to be passin’, and thought I’d——’