With this broad hint, she proceeded to shut the door in his face, when the General, recovering his presence of mind, made use of the only argument his experience had taught him was universal and conclusive.
Her frown relaxed with the touch of money on her palm. "You're a gentleman, you are," she observed approvingly. "Won't ye step in, sir? It's bad talking with the door in your 'and."
He complied, and sat down on one of the bare hall-chairs, feeling as he had felt once before, when badly hit, in the Punjaub.
She went on with her dusting, talking all the time. "You see they sent round for me first thing in the morning; and I says to Mrs. Jones—that's my landlady, sir,"—(dropping a curtsey), "'Mrs. Jones,' says I, 'whatever can they be up to,' says I, 'making such an early flitting?' says I—"
"But do you mean they've left no letter?" he interrupted, starting from his seat; "no directions—no address? Are all the servants gone? Has Miss Douglas taken much luggage with her? Did she go away in a cab? Oh, woman! woman! tell me all you know! It's a matter of life and death!"
She looked at him askance, privately opining that, early as it was, the gentleman had been drinking, and sympathising with him none the less for that impression.
"They're off," said she stubbornly; "and they've took everythink along with them—bags and boxes, and what not. There was a man round after the keys—not half an hour gone. I should say as they wasn't coming back, none of 'em, no more."
This redundancy of negatives forcibly expressed her hopelessness of their return, and the General's good sense told him it was time wasted to cross-question his informant any further. Summoning his energies, he reflected that the post-office would be the best place whereat to prosecute inquiries, so he bade the old woman farewell, with all the fortitude he could muster, leaving her much impressed by his manners, bearing, and profuse liberality.
At the post-office, however (an Italian warehouse round the corner), they knew nothing. The General, at his wits' end, bethought him of those livery-stables where Satanella kept her namesake, the redoubtable black mare.