The next day a detective officer inquired at No. 3, Great Charlton Street, Strand, for James Marfleeting, Esq.; but that gentleman had left the house without giving the landlady warning, or paying for the last week’s rent.
Shortly afterwards, in the garb of a “Mossoo” of the Leech cut, and with a heavy black moustache, Mr. Gibbs called at Mrs. Dibble’s. He found that lady in a very melancholy state of mind, and considerably thinner than when we last saw her.
With a strong French accent he asked Mrs. Dibble if her husband had run away, and if his name was Thomas.
“Yeth, thir,” was Mrs. Dibble’s reply. “It ith with feelings of thorrow and shame—though why I should have such feelings, ith not my fault or deserth—it ith, however, with these feelings that I thay yeth to you, and having had a boarding-school education ath a girl, and been brought up in the highest spear of society, it ith a degradation which I feel to the core.”
“Ah, madame, dat is bad, dat is very bad; for it is goot to have education,—and why shall your husband leave you?”
Mr. Gibbs shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands as he spoke, and Mrs. Dibble sighed and shook her little stumpy curls sympathetically.
“It ith a long story, which I am not inclined to go into unnecessarily,” said Mrs. Dibble, “and there are griefs which are not improved by being talked about. Ath a busineth woman, and one who wath the daughter of a builder that erected hundreds of houses and public inthitutions, the specifications of which I have written out many a time,—ath a busineth woman, I would athk what your busineth ith with me? and then we can go on.”
Mrs. Dibble sat down, smoothed her apron, and looked Monsieur full in the face.
“If I shall pring you to vere your husband shall be, is he of—ah! vat sall I say?—is he of dat value to you for vich you sall pay mine fees, vich is out of mine pocket?”
Mrs. Dibble did not reply, but proceeded to fasten her dress behind, which required a considerable effort.