Chapter Twenty Nine.
The Lost Lord.
Ten days after Mrs Girdwood had taken her departure from the Clarendon Hotel, a gentleman presented himself to the door-porter of that select hostelry, and put the following inquiry:
“Is there a family stopping here, by name Girdwood—a middle-aged lady, with two younger—her daughter and niece; a negro woman for their servant?”
“There was such a fambly—about two weeks ago. They’ve paid their bill, and gone away.”
The janitor laid emphasis on the paying of the bill. It was his best evidence of the respectability of the departed guests.
“Do you know where they’ve gone?”
“Haven’t an idea, sir. They left no address. They ’pear to be Yankees—’Mericans, I mean,” said the man, correcting himself, in fear of giving offence. “Very respectable people—ladies, indeed—’specially the young ’uns. I dare say they’ve gone back to the States. That’s what I’ve heerd them call their country.”
“To the States! Surely not?” said the stranger, half questioning himself. “How long since they left the hotel?”