The old woman knew not how to act. She perceived that it was useless to endeavour to obtain another interview with Agnes—at least on the present occasion; and she was unwilling to return to her employer with the acknowledgment that her policy had rather marred than forwarded his interests. She therefore now began to reflect whether it were not better to abandon the business altogether, and return to Paris, where her daughter’s affairs might afford scope for her intriguing qualifications and likewise augment her pecuniary resources. She was already possessed of between five and six thousand pounds—the amount wrung from the hands of her miserable husband; and she came to the conclusion that it was scarcely worth her while to waste any more time in a matter which, even were she successful, would only bring her a recompense of a few hundreds.
Having made these hasty reflections, Mrs. Mortimer thrust Trevelyan’s letter into her reticule,—for she never destroyed documents that related to private affairs; and, returning to the hackney-coach, desired to be driven to the Borough.
She alighted in Blackman Street, and, having dismissed the vehicle, repaired to the coffee-house where she had taken up her abode.
As she was passing by the bar-parlour, in order to reach the staircase leading to her own chamber, the mistress of the establishment came forth and beckoned her into the room: then, closing the door, the woman said, in a tone savouring somewhat of cool insolence, “I tell you what it is, Mrs. Mortimer—the sooner you accommodate yourself with other lodgings, the better: ’cos, though I ain’t over partickler and makes no imperent inquiries about them as paytronises my house—yet, for all that, I can’t abide such wisitors as come on your account just now. Leastways, I’d rayther be vithout ’em.”
“My good woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, surveying the landlady with an astonishment the most real and unfeigned, “you must be labouring under some mistake. I hope that I’m a respectable person; and I am sure that I shall bring no discredit on your house. As for any visitors who have called on my account, I expect none—and therefore there is an error in the matter.”
“No such a thing!” cried the landlady, her choler rising. “There was two men which come just now: and, what’s more, they was officers with a search-warrant—and I couldn’t perwent them from doing their dooty.”
“Officers!—a search-warrant!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, now becoming frightened—although she could not conceive what feature of her recent conduct could have excited any suspicion on the part of the myrmidons of justice:—but suddenly a fear of an appalling nature seized upon her—for her money was all concealed in her chamber up-stairs. “Oh! it’s wery well on your part, ma’am, to put a good face on the bisness,” said the landlady: “but it’s nevertheless true for all that. A great tall hulking feller and a seedy-looking old man——”
“An old man!” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, now becoming sick at heart.
“Yes—an old man,” proceeded the coffee-house-keeper’s wife; “and he said he was a officer with a search-warrant, and that t’other was his assistant——”
