“I shall have to go.”
A year passed rapidly away, during which time Guest’s visits were pretty constant to Benchers’ Inn, or to that institution where the new curator seemed to have thrown himself with so much spirit into his work that Guest often came to the conclusion that he must have treated his past after the fashion suggested by the admiral’s sister. For there were no friendly confidences, and it was only a supposition that Stratton might be well informed as to the doings of the family abroad.
At last one morning, after being expectant and on thorns for weeks, Guest made his way to Bayswater, sending the cabman by a circuitous route, so as to pass through Bourne Square.
The family had not returned, but there were painters at work; and excited by this, he rang at Miss Jerrold’s, was shown up, and as soon as he had shaken hands the old lady tightened her lips and shook her head at him.
“All my good advice thrown away, boy,” she said. “Now no deceit; you’ve heard news?”
“Indeed, no,” he cried. “I only came through the square.”
“On purpose?”
“Well, yes, and saw that there were men at work painting.”
“Pooh!” ejaculated Miss Jerrold. “That may mean my brother is going to let the house.”
“But Sir Mark is not going to let the house, Miss Jerrold?”