“Mrs Hallett is precisely the same. I do not think she has altered in the least since I have known her.”
Miss Carr seemed to turn her face more away from me, or else it was the shadow, and now, instead of speaking of Stephen Hallett, something seemed to prompt me to turn off, and talk of Revitts and Mary, and of how admirably the arrangement had answered of their taking the house in Great Ormond Street.
There seemed to be a slight impatient movement as I prattled on—I can call it nothing else. It was not from a spirit of mischief, but all the time I seemed to feel that she must want to know about Stephen Hallett, and somehow I could not mention his name.
“It is quite droll, Miss Carr,” I said. “Mrs Hallett says that it is such an admirable arrangement, having a police-constable on the premises, and that she has never before felt so safe since she has been in London.”
“You have not spoken to me yet of your friend—Mr Hallett.”
I started, for it did not sound like Miss Carr’s voice, and when I looked up I could not see her face.
“No; not yet,” I said. “He is toiling on still as patiently and enduringly as ever.”
“And the invention, Antony?”
“The invention,” I said bitterly, “lags behind. It is impossible to get on.”
“Is—is it all waste of time, then?”