The prophet accordingly hailed a hansom, and was directing the cabman to drive to the Mountain's residence in Maida Vale,—a paradoxical address for a Mountain, by the way,—when a strange thing happened. Nay, it was a providential thing; for if Hughie had not resolutely summoned up his courage and told the dentist to go in and finish off the small hole in the last tooth,—a treat which that sated epicure was inclined to postpone until another occasion,—he would have hailed this hansom twenty minutes sooner and so missed his just reward.
Mrs. Lance Gaymer suddenly came round a corner of the quiet square, and crossed the road directly in front of Hughie's hansom. Hughie dismounted, and greeted her.
"Why," cried Mrs. Lance, "I do declare, it's Mr. Marrable!"
She smiled upon Hughie in a manner so intoxicating that the cabman coughed discreetly to the horse. That intelligent animal made no comment, but turned round and looked at the cabman.
"Fancy meeting you!" she continued archly.
"Did your husband get a letter from me yesterday, Mrs. Gaymer, do you know?" asked Hughie.
No, Mrs. Gaymer was sure he had not. The poor boy had took to his bed a week ago, with the "flu"; so Mrs. Lance had been conducting his correspondence for him, and could therefore vouch for the non-arrival of Hughie's letter. She hazarded the suggestion that possibly Hughie had written to Maida Vale.
Yes. Hughie had.
"That's it, then!" said Mrs. Lance. "We moved from there six weeks ago. We live in Balham now."
Hughie was not sufficiently conversant with suburban caste distinctions to feel sure whether this was a step up or down in the social scale, so he merely expressed a hope that Lance was getting well again.