The landlady took her money with an air of relief. Her greed satisfied, her curiosity became ascendant.
“Where is Mr. Black, if I may be so bold?” she inquired. “It’s not like him to be away over night. But young men will be young men, Mrs. Black, whether they are young gentlemen or otherwise, and they will have their sprees, you know, Mrs. Black, although I would say that Mr. Black seemed as steady a young gentlemen as one could wish to see.”
“He is steady,” asserted the young wife, half indignantly. “He never goes on a spree. He—he went to see his father, and said he would be back last night. And, oh, I am so anxious!” she cried, her terrors getting the better of her reserve. “I am sure he would never have stayed away like this if something had not happened to him.”
“Perhaps he’s deserted you?” suggested her Job’s comforter. “Men desert their wives every day. Lawks! What is that?” the landlady ejaculated, as a loud double knock was heard on the street door. “It’s not the postman. Perhaps Mr. Black has been killed, and they’re bringing home his body.”
The poor young wife uttered a wild shriek and flew to the head of the stairs, the ponderous landlady hurrying after her, and reaching her side just as the slipshod maid-servant opened the door, giving admittance to Craven Black.
The landlady descended the stairs noisily, and Lally retreated to her room. She had hardly gained it when Mr. Black came up the stairs alone and knocked at the door. She gave him admittance, her big round eyes full of questioning terror, her pale lips framing the words:
“My husband?”
Mr. Black, holding his hat in his hand, closed the door behind him. He bowed politely to the scared young creature, and demanded:
“You are Miss Lally Bird?”
The slight, childish figure drew itself up proudly, and the quivering voice tried to answer calmly: