“Oh, well, you seem to know a lot. What more do you want?”
“I only know the father by sight—that is, if he was the father who was in here just now. I take it he was.”
“Ah, there, now, you’re asking.”
“Oh, there’s no secret, Mrs. Carter. Mr. Johann Strauss is a well-known man.”
“Is that his name—Strauss? Well, well, live and learn.”
“That’s his name, and that’s his writing, Mrs. Carter!”—words which David uttered almost with a shout, as he caught an envelope out of the coal scuttle, and laid it on the table, pointing fixedly at it.
Mrs. Carter was startled by his sudden vehemence. The envelope was one directed to her in the same flourishing writing which Dibbin had long since shown David as that of Strauss.
“You are bound to admit,” said David, imperatively, “that this envelope was directed to you by the gentleman who was just here.”
“Well, so it was; what of that?” asked Mrs. Carter, in a maze as to what the row was about.
“That’s all right, then,” said David, quieting down. “I only wanted to be sure.”