"Is there no one who can tell me what I want to know?" asked Mr. Granger.
"I doubt it, monsieur. Monsieur Austin was in debt to almost every one except his landlord. He promised to write about his furniture,—some of the movables in those rooms upstairs are his—cabinets, carved chairs, tapestries, and so on; but he said nothing as to where he was going."
"He promised to write," repeated Mr. Granger. "That's an indefinite kind of promise. You could let me know, I suppose, if you heard anything?"
"But certainly," replied the porter, who saw Mr. Granger's fingers in his waistcoat pocket, and scented a fee, "monsieur should know immediately."
Mr. Granger wrote his address upon a card, and gave it to the porter, with a napoleon.
"You shall have another when you bring me any information. Good-night."
At home, Daniel Granger had to face his daughter, who had heard by this time of her stepmother's departure and the abstraction of the baby.
"O, papa," she exclaimed, "I do so feel for you!" and made as if she would have embraced her parent; but he stood like a rock, not inviting any affectionate demonstration.
"Thank you, my dear," he said gravely; "but I can do very well without pity. It's a kind of thing I'm not accustomed to. I am annoyed that Clarissa should have acted in—in this ill-advised manner; but I have no doubt matters will come right in a little time."
"Lovel—my brother is safe, papa?" inquired Sophia, clasping her hands.