Happily there were plenty of cabs that night, and it was only the carriage people who had to wait. Mr. Pembroke came back for his wife in two or three minutes.
“I’ve got a four-wheeler,” he said. “You’ll come home with us for a smoke and a drink, won’t you, Van?”
“Not to-night, thanks; it’s late—and—and—I’ve some letters to write.”
“Good night, then. I’m afraid you’ve been bored.”
“On the contrary. I was never more interested in my life.”
CHAPTER IX.
“THOUGH LOVE, AND LIFE, AND DEATH SHOULD COME AND GO.”
Vansittart tore open the blank envelope under one of the lamps at the back of the vestibule, while the crowd about the doors was gradually melting away, and the question “Cab or carriage?” was being asked, often with a sad want of discrimination on the part of the questioners. The letter was from Lisa.
It was in English, mixed with little phrases in Italian, badly spelt and badly written, but quite plain enough for him to read.
“I knew you directly,” she wrote, “and your face brought back the past—that dreadful night, and all I suffered after the of him death. Come to see me, I pray you. It must that we talk together. Come soon, soon. I live with la Zia, in Stone Court, Bow Street, No. 24B, quite near the Opera House. Come to-night if she can.—Her humble servant,