“I am not sure that she is there now. She may be at the Isle of Storms, or she may be here in this very city.”
“Oh, if I thought that!” joyfully exclaimed Owlet.
“Well, you see, it is better to inquire and make sure of where she is before we do anything else.”
“Oh, yes. And Mr. Merritt will be certain to know all about Lady.”
“Here we are. This is the place where the old lawyer hangs out.”
Owlet looked all the way up the front of the house, and then turned great round eyes of inquiry to Harcourt’s face.
“Oh, I don’t mean himself, but his sign. There it is—‘Amos Merritt, Attorney-at-Law.’”
“Oh, yes,” said the child, as her companion led her into the house and up the stairs to the second floor, where Mr. Merritt’s chambers were situated.
He opened a door on the right, that led into a large front room, where a young clerk sat writing at a desk. There was no one else in this outer office.
“Is Mr. Merritt in?” inquired Harcourt, going up to the desk.