Next minute he heard a voice, which he knew only too well, a loud high voice say from the cab, “Well, open the door, stupid, can’t you?”
“Certainly, my lady fair,” replied another voice—a coarse, somewhat husky male voice—“adored Edithia, in one moment.”
“Come stow that and let me out,” replied the adored Edithia sharply; and in another moment a large man in evening clothes, a horrible vulgar, carnal-looking man with red cheeks and a hanging under-lip, emerged into the lamp-light and turned to hand the lady out. As he did so the woman Ellen advanced from the doorway, and going to the cab door whispered something to its occupant.
“Hullo, Johnnie,” said the lady, as she descended from the cab, so loudly that Mr. Quest on the balcony could hear every word, “you must be off; Mr. d’Aubigne has turned up, and perhaps he won’t think three good company, so you had just best take this cab back again, my son, and that will save me the trouble of paying it. Come, cut.”
“D’Aubigne,” growled the flashy man with an oath, “what do I care about d’Aubigne? Advance, d’Aubigne, and all’s well! You needn’t be jealous of me, I’m——”
“Now stop that noise and be off. He’s a lawyer and he might not freeze on to you; don’t you understand?”
“Well I’m a lawyer too and a pretty sharp one—arcades ambo,” said Johnnie with a coarse laugh; “and I tell you what it is, Edith, it ain’t good enough to cart a fellow down in this howling wilderness and then send him away without a drink; lend us another fiver at any rate. It ain’t good enough, I say.”
“Good enough or not you’ll have to go and you don’t get any fivers out of me to-night. Now pack sharp, or I’ll know the reason why,” and she pointed towards the cab in a fashion that seemed to cow her companion, for without another word he got into it.
In another moment the cab had turned, and he was gone, muttering curses as he went.
The woman, who was none other than Mrs. d’Aubigne, alias Edith Jones, alias the Tiger, turned and entered the house accompanied by her servant, Ellen, and presently Mr. Quest heard the rustle of her satin dress upon the stairs. He stepped back into the darkness of the balcony and waited. She opened the door, entered, and closed it behind her, and then, a little dazzled by the light, stood for some seconds looking about for her visitor. She was a thin, tall woman, who might have been any age between forty and fifty, with the wrecks of a very fine agile-looking figure. Her face, which was plentifully bedaubed with paint and powder, was sharp, fierce, and handsome, and crowned with a mane of false yellow hair. Her eyes were cold and blue, her lips thin and rather drawn, so as to show a double line of large and gleaming teeth. She was dressed in a rich and hideous tight-fitting gown of yellow satin, barred with black, and on her arms were long bright yellow gloves. She moved lightly and silently, and looked around her with a long-searching gaze, like that of a cat, and her general appearance conveyed an idea of hunger and wicked ferocity. Such was the outward appearance of the Tiger, and of a truth it justified her name. “Why, where the dickens has he got to?” she said aloud; “I wonder if he has given me the slip?”