The old lady insisted upon accompanying me to the door, and went on in front with a candle, despite my remonstrances, to show me the way upstairs.
She had one foot on the stair when she stopped.
"Do you mind telling me your name?" she asked.
I handed her my card, and she put up her glasses.
"'William Anstruther,'" she read. "That is a coincidence." "I had nearly forgotten one thing," she continued. "I must give you a duplicate latch-key to let yourself in with. I have a habit of falling asleep in the afternoon, and you might ring the bell for half an hour and I should not hear you."
She went back into the room we had left and returned in a few moments with the latch-key, which she gave me.
Despite my endeavours to persuade her, she went with me to the front door, and I felt a deep pity for her when I left, thinking that she was to spend the night alone in that dismal old house.
"Au revoir until five to-morrow," I said cheerfully, as I bowed and left her.
She smiled benignantly upon me.
"Au revoir," she answered.