“Ah, my fault—entirely my fault. I misled her, not purposely, of course. She gave you no address?”
“No, sir. Said she would write in a few days, perhaps within a week; but she imagined your movements were uncertain, and she could decide nothing till she had seen you.”
“Ah, the devil take it, my fault! I ought to have telegraphed.”
He harped on this string as promising some measure of safety for the hour. By this time he was seated, and ostensibly sipping iced water, while his frenzied brain was striving to find an excuse to encourage the man to talk.
“Perhaps Mrs. Marten may return when she discovers her mistake,” he contrived to say with some show of calmness.
“Well, sir, that may happen, of course. My mistress did not take any large supply of clothing, and left her maid here; so, when she misses you in New York, she will probably wire for Julie, at any rate.”
“Julie?”
“The French maid, sir.”
“What time did Mr. Power call?”
“Very early, sir. About six o’clock.”