Not having seen Miss. French since the latter’s unwelcome call in Grove Lane, she only knew that Beatrice had left De Crespigny Park to inhabit a flat somewhere or other.
‘I wish to see her particularly, on business.’
‘Excuse me a moment, madam.’
On returning, the young person requested Nancy to follow her up the shop, and led into a glass-partitioned office, where, at a table covered with fashion-plates, sat a middle-aged man, with a bald head of peculiar lustre. He rose and bowed; Nancy repeated her request.
‘Could I despatch a message for you, madam?’
‘My business is private.’
The bald-headed man coughed urbanely, and begged to know her name.
‘Miss. Lord—of Grove Lane.’
Immediately his countenance changed from deprecating solemnity to a broad smile of recognition.
‘Miss. Lord! Oh, to be sure; I will give you the address at once. Pray pardon my questions; we have to be so very careful. So many people desire private interviews with Miss. French. I will jot down the address.’