The governess, when she arrived in London, took some comfortable apartments for herself; she could afford to wait awhile, for she had plenty of money besides her salary, which latter she had rigorously exacted from the dowager to the last penny, including a month’s notice, for which she gave a receipt in full, and she could afford to look about and suit her own convenience as to her future plans.
By a strange coincidence, she, after hunting about for a day or two, took lodgings in the very house where Markworth had formerly lived in Bloomsbury, and had the very same landlady, Mrs Martin, as hostess. That good lady being very fond of chat, like most landladies, and as “the parlours,” as Miss Kingscott became called from taking these rooms, had no friends coming to see her, she would frequently drop in “of an evenink” to pass the time of day: also, like most landladies, Mrs Martin would recount all the deeds and doings of her former lodgers, in which narrative she did not fail to mention Mr Markworth, “The best gentleman as any lady ever had; so quiet and giving no trouble, and always paying his rent that regular as you might depend upon it like the Bank of England as ever was!”
It was not surprising under these circumstances, therefore, that Miss Kingscott soon got a little further information about the gentleman around whom she was busily weaving her coils, and learnt in a very short time—just through passing curiosity, that’s all, she was so much interested in what that good Mrs Martin had to tell of her lodgers—all about the habits of Markworth, and that “sister” of his he had brought up from the country, and how he had removed all his things, and gone off at last without a word of warning; although “I’ll do him the justice to say he behaved as a perfect gentleman, that he did, and paid a month’s rent in advance,” said Mrs Martin, which capped what the governess had got out of the old dowager, and placed the lodging-house keeper and herself on a par.
“Markworth versus Hartshorne” was rapidly coming on for trial, when late one evening, just as he was thinking of shutting up his office, and going home for the night—the clerks, but one, had all departed an hour since—Mr Trump had a visitor.
“Ah, ha! Miss Kingscott, glad to see you,” said the lawyer, rising from his chair as she entered. He was by himself, Sequence and the “Co.” having retired for the evening, and he was then writing busily by the aid of a couple of greasy candles, which flared, now to the right, now to the left, from the draught through the half-open door. “Glad to see you; can I do anything for you? it’s rather late, but never too late for business, you know!” And he rubbed his hands with a sort of congratulatory and metallic rub.
“Yes,” answered the governess, speaking deliberately, in her cold, calm voice; “I wanted to speak to you, and that’s the reason you see me here. You know, I suppose, that I have left Mrs Hartshorne’s employment?”
“Yes—sorry for it too—hasty business; but you must remember the old lady is a leetel hasty sometimes, and I ought to know it as well as anybody.”
“You are right, sir; she is too hasty sometimes, and was a little too much so for her own good very nearly: only that it serves my purpose to help her, I would not now be here. That case is very nearly coming on, is it not?”
“What, Markworth versus Hartshorne? Yes; but I thought you were subpoenaed on the other side?”
“So I am, but I can help your side a good deal!”