“Thank you,” he said, retaining the paper; “that is all I wanted to know. I will go now.”
Next instant he was on the steps and heard the door being locked behind him.
His cab was still standing a few yards off, as the man wished to breathe his horse after the long drive. Rupert re-entered it, and told him to go to Brook Street. There, in the cab, the first shock passed away, and his natural grief overcame him, causing the tears to course down his cheeks. It was all so dreadful and so sad—if only his mother had lived a little longer!
Very soon they reached the number written on the old envelope, and once more Rupert, carpet-bag in hand, rang the bell, or rather pushed the button, for this one was electric, wondering in a vague way what awaited him behind that door. It was answered by a little underling, a child fresh from the country, for the head servant had gone for a Sunday jaunt in the company of Edith’s own maid.
“Is Mrs. Ullershaw in?” asked Rupert.
“Yes, sir, I believe so,” she answered, curtseying to this great, dim apparition, and striving to hide her dirty little hands under her apron.
Rupert entered the hall, and asked which was her room.
“Upstairs, sir, and the first door to the right;” for remembering the scolding she had recently received from Edith when she showed up Sir Somebody Something with her sleeves tucked above her thin elbows, as they were just now, the girl did not wish to repeat that unforgiveable offence. So having explained and shut the door, she promptly vanished.
Still carrying his carpet-bag, Rupert climbed the stairs till he came to the room indicated. Placing his bag upon a butler’s tray outside, which had not been removed since luncheon, he knocked.
“Come in,” said a voice—the voice of Edith, who thought that it was a maid with some hot water which she had forgotten when she brought up the tea.