“Well, we’re very near to the Abbey, and I’m sure that can’t be the place, then.”
The cabbie roared out a great mirthful laugh.
“Where is this address?” demanded Billie, taking no notice of his amusement. “Miss Felicia Rivers, No. 14 Jetson Row?”
“That’s a bit nearer.”
“Go ahead, then,” called Billie, feeling suddenly quite hopeful and happy. “I’m sure that’s it, Nancy. It’s bound to be. Our lodgings were so near to everything and it does seem to me the lodging house keeper’s name was ‘Felicia.’”
“She was a Miss, I’m certain,” continued Nancy. “It comes back to me now, because I remember making a picture in my mind of a thin old maid who kept lodgers in her upper rooms, and had a cat and drank tea in the back parlor.”
It seemed a long way, however, to the abode of Miss Felicia Rivers. Through a network of dark, roughly paved streets they drove slowly. They were very tired and hungry and the cold damp air seemed to penetrate through their heavy ulsters. At last they drew up in front of a shabby-looking old house with the usual basement and a curved flight of steps leading up to the front door, which was opened at the very moment the cab stopped, and a woman ran down to the sidewalk.
“You’ve been a long time gettin’ here,” she said. “The Missus was that uneasy.”
“Will you ask my cousin to pay the cab bill?” Billie said. “We haven’t any money.”
“It was expected she’d pay the bill, Miss,” said the maid, pulling a worn old purse from her apron pocket.