Bantom looked upon Lotte very much as he would upon a dog which he had picked up, brought home, found to possess good qualities, and had grown into a pet. He had found and brought Lotte home, and he felt a personal interest in her, which could not have been created in his breast under any other circumstances. When, therefore, he heard his wife’s surmise, he seized his hat, put it on his head, and, tired as he was, prepared to sally forth again.
“Keziah” he said, in a husky tone, “I likes to know the wust, I does—I purfers it. I’m off to the river, I am, jes’ to show you you’re wrong. Keep up your pluck, old gal, I’ll be back as quick as ever I can.”
He went; traversed both sides of the river between London and Westminster bridges, and crawled home in the morning exhausted, as the clock was striking seven. He threw himself into a chair despondent as ever man in this world was, and said—
“I told you, Keziah, you wus wrong; nobody has drownded themselves this blessed night. I’ve been both sides of the river, from Billin’sgate to Lambeth.”
A loud knock at this instant was given at the street-door. Mr. and Mrs. Bantom came into collision at the lock, and both pulled at it together. It was not Lotte who had knocked, and their countenances fell, for, with hearts beating high with hope, they had fully persuaded themselves she had come “home” at last.
A footman in violet livery met their gaze instead.
He looked at husband and wife, and, with the air and manner of a cabinet minister in his court dress, he said, inquiringly—
“Bantom?”
“That’s me!” exclaimed husband and wife together.
The footman produced a letter, and handed it to Bantom.