“What shall I do, then?”
“Drop me a line—or, better still, wire to me,” said Bob. “Just say, 'Address elsewhere.' Then I'll write to you at Mr. M'Clinton's; the old solicitor chap in Lincoln's Inn; and you'll have to go there and get the letters. You know his address, don't you?”
“Oh, yes. I have to write to him every quarter when he sends me my allowance. You'll explain to him, then, Bob, or he'll simply redirect your letters here.”
“Oh, of course. I want to go and see the old chap, anyhow, to talk over Aunt Margaret's affairs. I might as well know a little more about them. Tommy, the she-dragon can't actually lock you up, can she?”
“No—it couldn't be done,” said Cecilia. “Modern houses aren't built with dungeons and things. Moreover, if she tried to keep me in the house she would have to take the children out for their walks herself; and she simply hates walking.”
“Then you can certainly post to me, and get my letters, and I'll be up again as soon as ever I can. Buck up, old girl—it can't be for long now.”
They turned in at the Rainhams' front gate, and Cecilia glanced up apprehensively. All the windows were in darkness; the grey front of the house loomed forbiddingly in the faint moonlight.
“You're coming in, aren't you?” she asked, her hand tightening on his arm.
“Rather—we'll take the edge off her tongue together.” Bob rang the bell. “Wonder if they have all gone to bed. The place looks pretty dark.”
“She's probably in the little room at the back—the one she calls her boudoir.”