“Quite a stranger to you.”
The other made an unpleasant click with her tongue, and looked vaguely about her. Then she remarked inconsequently that she was waiting the arrival of her brother by train.
“He’s a traveller for a West-end shop; makes five hundred a year. I keep house for him, because of course he’s a widower.”
The “of course” puzzled Monica for a moment, but she remembered that it was an unmeaning expletive much used by people of Miss Eade’s education. However, the story did not win her credence; by this time her disagreeable surmises had too much support.
“Was there anything you wished particularly to speak about?”
“You haven’t seen nothing of Mr. Bullivant?”
To what a remote period of her life this name seemed to recall Monica! She glanced quickly at the speaker, and again detected suspicion in her eyes.
“I have neither seen nor heard of him since I left Walworth Road. Isn’t he still there?”
“Not he. He went about the same time you did, and nobody knew where he hid himself.”
“Hid? Why should he hide?”