When she had sent this off, and a telegram to her father at Newmarket, she read Fiorsen's letter once more, and was more than ever certain that it was Rosek's wording. And, suddenly, she thought of Daphne Wing, whom her father had seen coming out of Rosek's house. Through her there might be a way of getting news. She seemed to see again the girl lying so white and void of hope when robbed by death of her own just-born babe. Yes; surely it was worth trying.
An hour later, her cab stopped before the Wagges' door in Frankland Street. But just as she was about to ring the bell, a voice from behind her said:
“Allow me; I have a key. What may I—Oh, it's you!” She turned. Mr. Wagge, in professional habiliments, was standing there. “Come in; come in,” he said. “I was wondering whether perhaps we shouldn't be seeing you after what's transpired.”
Hanging his tall black hat, craped nearly to the crown, on a knob of the mahogany stand, he said huskily:
“I DID think we'd seen the last of that,” and opened the dining-room door. “Come in, ma'am. We can put our heads together better in here.”
In that too well remembered room, the table was laid with a stained white cloth, a cruet-stand, and bottle of Worcestershire sauce. The little blue bowl was gone, so that nothing now marred the harmony of red and green. Gyp said quickly:
“Doesn't Daph—Daisy live at home, then, now?”
The expression on Mr. Wagge's face was singular; suspicion, relief, and a sort of craftiness were blended with that furtive admiration which Gyp seemed always to excite in him.
“Do I understand that you—er—”
“I came to ask if Daisy would do something for me.”