He was recalled to himself by the voice of Mme. Poulin at the door. She recognized him, and enquired civilly how she could serve him.
“Do you happen to know Mrs. Archer’s address?” he asked. “Did she leave it with you before she went? I have some letters of importance to forward to her.”
“But yes, certainly,” replied the brisk old woman; “Monsieur shall have it at once. It is mademoiselle that gave it to me. Already have I sent letters, a little bill by example, that madam, in her distress, failed to pay. And I have received the answer with an order for the money. ‘Ces dames étaient gentilles, mais bien gentilles. Cette pauvre Thérèse a bien pleuré leur départ! Eh le petit, ah qu’il était mignon.”
“But the address,” reminded Ralph.
“Ah yes, the address! I go to seek it.”
And she disappeared, in another moment returning with two or three ready directed and stamped envelopes in her band, on each of which was written in a clear girlish hand—
“Mrs. George Archer,
23, West Parade,
Cheltenham.”
“Cheltenham!” exclaimed Ralph, “by Jove, and I put Leamington. My mother’s mistake, evidently, and that snake of a girl suspected my secret and encouraged my mistake. Heaven forgive her, for I can’t. And now—