“We have instructions as to the Mordaunts’ letters,” said the landlady, “and, of course, we follow them.”
“Well, but you seem very inflexible, especially as I tell you—”
“Can’t help that, sir. We were told that you would be turning up, and I give you the answer which I was directed to give. It is quite useless to come here making any request as to the Mordaunts.”
David went away discomforted. There remained to him one hope—Dibbin. He ran round to Dibbin’s and asked for the address.
“I’m afraid I’m hardly authorized to do that,” answered the agent, to whom such appeals were matters of every-day business.
“Do be reasonable,” urged David. “Miss Mordaunt herself gave me her address, only I have let it slip out of my mind.”
Dibbin shook his head like an emblem of doubt. “Of course,” he said, “I shall be happy to send on anything which you commit to me.”
“Direct?” asked David, “or through Van Hupfeldt?”
“Direct, of course,” answered Dibbin. “I have no sort of instructions with respect to Mr. Van Hupfeldt.”
“Have you ever seen him, Dibbin?”