I need not explain what it was I wanted to do, more particularly, for I think any one who reads this will understand. I will just go on to tell exactly what happened.
The next morning—it was a fine day; how glad I was of that!—saw mamma and me comfortably installed in a first-class railway-carriage, en route for London. We had no luggage, for we were only going up for the day—Elmwood is only two hours from Victoria. When we got there mamma hailed a four-wheeler—I would rather have had a hansom, but mamma is rather nervous about hansoms, and after all I was scarcely in the humour to care much—and told the man to drive first to one of the big shops she knew well. There she got an address-book and found out old Mrs Fetherston’s number, and off we set again. We scarcely spoke—I was growing so nervous—not out of fear for myself, but lest possibly it should all fail!
At last the cab drew up in front of a large, regular London house. We got out. The door was opened by a footman, and further back in the hall were one or two other men-servants. It was a stately, rather old-fashioned house. How strange to think that it belonged to the queer old woman I had so mistaken!
“Is Mrs Fetherston at home?” mamma inquired. It was now about half-past two; we had chosen the time well. The footman hesitated.
“I think my mistress is at home,” he said, “but she don’t see many visitors.” Mamma smiled so sweetly that he could not help adding: “I can inquire if—”
“Perhaps you had better take my card to her, as it is really on business. And pray say I will not detain her many minutes.”
At the word “business” the man hesitated again; but he saw that we had kept the cab; that did not look much like ladylike impostors. “Will you step in?” he began again.
In her turn mamma hesitated.
“We could wait in the cab,” she said to me doubtfully. But it was a very cold day.
At that moment a tall, thin, dark-complexioned man—a gentleman, I mean—crossed the hall.