I need not describe my brief journey to Putney; I had no adventures on the road. No one spoke rudely to me, or stared at me, or molested me in any fashion. The train was punctual, and my fellow-passengers civil.
When I got out at Putney station I did not lose my way, for Jack’s directions were explicit, and my head felt wonderfully clear.
It was, however, between nine and ten o’clock at night when I arrived at the lodging-house where my brother’s poor young wife lay ill.
I knocked at the door, and the landlady, who had watery eyes and an ugly sodden sort of face, presently answered the summons.
She opened the door about six inches, and stared at me suspiciously from head to foot.
“Does Mrs Lindley live here?” I asked.
“No, there’s no one of that name in the house.” She prepared to shut the door in my face.
“Stay,” I exclaimed, pressing my hand against the panel of the door, “there is a young lady here who is very ill. I am her husband’s sister, and I have come with a message from him, and I have brought several things that she wants. I must see her at once.”
The landlady looked at the heavy basket in my hand. She glanced at my face, which I am sure was resolved in expression. She listened to my voice, which was firm.
“Oh, you mean Mrs Gray,” she exclaimed. “Yes, poor thing, she’s as bad as bad can be. I suppose you had better come up and see her, if you have any message from her husband. It’s a perfect worry to hear her calling out for him all the time, and maybe you can quiet her down a bit.”