“But what is her name?”
“I—don’t—think—I—quite—know.”
“But what do other people call her? Everyone does not call her Lady, I suppose?”
“No—nobody but me. I call her Lady. But the black people do call her ‘young mist’ess,’ and Mr. Merritt and Dr. Shaw call her ‘Roma, my dear’.”
Harcourt started.
“‘Roma?’—‘Dr. Shaw?’—‘Mr. Merritt?’ What does all this mean?” he muttered to himself in strong agitation. Then:
“Where does this lady live, my child?” he asked, in a shaking voice.
“Oh! at Goblin Hall. Such a lovely place! Oh, sir, please—oh! please do take me home to my own dear Lady!” pleaded the child, putting her little, white hands together and looking up in his face.
“Yes, yes, you shall be restored to your Lady,” he said. “This is very strange. I cannot comprehend it at all. But I know that I must succor this little one,” he thought, as he lifted the unresisting child to his shoulder and carried her up the four flights of stairs to his room.