Hatred of some one; herself, perhaps; or it might be of a fancied rival. Her heart grew cold as she thought of Vansittart. Unreasoning jealousy on her account had cost one man his life, and had burdened the life of another man with inextinguishable remorse. Would Sefton, whose love expressed itself with appalling vehemence, try to injure the one man she cared for, the man for whose sake she would give her life? It would be well to warn him, perhaps. To warn him? But how? She did not even know where he lived; but she knew his sister’s house, and his sister’s servants would be able to tell her his address. She knew his real name now—Vansittart, a grandly sounding name. She repeated it to herself with a kind of rapture as the cab rattled along the King’s Road, taking her to the Apollo.
She wrote to Vansittart next day, telling him that Sefton had offered to marry her, and that she had refused him.
“He is jealous and angry about you,” she told him, in conclusion. “He fancies because I was so pleased to see you that day on the river that it is my love for you that made me refuse him, and I think he would like to kill you. His face looked like murder as he bade me good-bye—and I’m afraid it is you he wants to murder, not me. Pray be on your guard about him. He may hire some one to stab you in the street, after dark. Please don’t go out at night except in your carriage. Forgive me for writing to you; but when I think that your life may be in danger, I cannot refrain from sending you this warning. You warned me of my danger, which was no danger, because I never cared for the man. I warn you of yours.”
With this letter in her pocket, Lisa put herself into one of her favourite omnibuses, which took her to Albert Gate, and from Albert Gate she found her way across the Park to Hill Street. She remembered the number, though she would hardly have known the house in its morning brightness of yellow marguerites and pale blue silk blinds.
The haughtiest of footmen opened the door, and looked at her from head to foot with the deliberate eye of scorn. Her beauty made not the faintest impression upon his rhinoceros hide. She was on foot, and shabbily clad, and he took her for a work-girl.
“I have a letter for Mr. Vansittart,” she began timidly.
The footman interrupted her with stern decisiveness. “This is not Mr. Vansittart’s ’ouse. This is Lady ’Artley’s.”
“I want to know where Mr. Vansittart lives.”
“Charles Street. Number 99a.”
“Please tell me the way.”