“Yes, we did think about it, but we changed our minds. Julia, has anything happened?”
“No—at least, only that daddy has gone to Paris for a few days. We came home and found he had been here, fussed because mother wasn’t in, packed his own bag, and left a note to say where he has gone and to say ‘good-by’ and—voilà tout.”
“But it isn’t all,” cried Maudie, “it’s only the beginning of it. My dear, daddy’s gone to Paris with her! It was by the merest chance we know. Harry was coming up the Strand—walking—he came up with a man in his cab as far as Charing Cross because they wanted to talk business; he got out at the corner of Villiers Street, and as he crossed over to the entrance of the station he saw daddy drive up in a cab with a portmanteau on the top. Immediately after, he saw a four-wheeled cab with her inside.”
“What—you mean the woman we saw at the Trocadero?”
“Yes—he was so struck by the coincidence of their both being at Charing Cross with luggage at the same time that he just walked quietly in and saw them both go off together.”
“Not together—Maudie!”
“Together—in the same carriage—a reserved compartment. And Harry says he bought a sheaf of papers and positively threw them at her.”
“It’s a mystery!” ejaculated Julia, blankly. “His letter to mother was everything that a letter could be. He laughs at himself ever so for going away on a mad errand, suggests that she should join him in a few days’ time, and signs himself, ‘till we meet, your fond and devoted Alfred.’”
“I tell you what it is, Ju,” said Maudie, dropping her young married woman air and becoming Maudie Whittaker once more, “I’m sorry to say it because he’s my father, but between you and me, daddy’s a regular bad lot.”