‘Yes,’ said Birnie, still writing.
‘I saw a paragraph in the papers that he’d been saved from the wreck after all, and carried back to America by a passing vessel, but I didn’t know he was in town.’
‘Yes; he’s been back some time.’
‘Where’s he staying?’
Birnie hesitated. Should he tell him? After all, if he didn’t, Marston could soon find out. Let Egerton take care of himself. If Marston wanted to bleed him, he would, and nothing could stop him. Still Birnie didn’t like the idea of anyone but himself having any influence over Gurth, and for very good reasons.
He hesitated so long that Marston repeated the question.
‘Oh, I really don’t know for certain,’ answered the doctor, folding his note and handing it in an open envelope to his visitor; ‘but I suppose he’ll be at his town house for a little time.’
‘Where’s that?’
Birnie gave him the address. After all, he wasn’t committing an indiscretion, for it was in the Post Office Directory. People of a certain position in life are doomed. They may hide their heads in the sand of fancied privacy as much as they like, but the agents of Messrs. Kelly and Co. can see them. He who aspires to the dignity of rates, taxes, and a vote cannot shield himself from the fierce light of publicity which falls upon a registered address in the Post Office Directory.
Marston thanked Birnie for the note and the information, and, lighting a cigar in the hall, was smiled to the front by Rebecca, who had been won over with a florin. It was Marston’s business now to make friends wherever he went.