"Yes, I do. I must tell you that shortly before six o'clock this evening, as I was coming home from my walk, I picked up, in one of the small streets here, a letter, dropped evidently by this Clara of yours; for just as I was reading the address on it, she came rushing round the corner, snatched it from my hand, and flew off with it before I had time to do more than notice that it was she. It is more than probable that she left by the six-o'clock train."
"For London?"
"No; I don't think she went to London."
"Oh! I see. You think she has gone off to Florence to my husband?"
"Yes, I think that; and something more, Mrs. Carson. The letter I picked up was addressed to Jeremiah Trall, 49, Poplar Street, Soho."
"Clara's father, I suppose?"
"Well, it may be her father or it may be Dr. Drabble--49, Poplar Street, happens to be the town address he gave me. It would not surprise me in the least to find that in pursuit of his Anarchistic schemes he found it useful to have--well, let us call it a nom de guerre."
"But why should he take Clara's name?"
"We don't know that Trall is Clara's real name," retorted Mallow. "Mind you, this is purely hypothetical. Jeremiah Trall may or may not be Drabble. At all events, the address is the same; and Soho is the hotbed of Anarchism in London. The possession of that wrist-button by Drabble seems to me clearly to point to some intimacy with Carson."
"The so-called Carson?" interrupted Olive.