“Merling, sir! Miss Ada Merling.”
Where had Dunoisse heard that name before? He racked his brain even as he said, with the smile that showed his small, square white teeth and made his black eyes gleam more brightly:
“I must be once more troublesome, if you will allow me. What is the name of the lady to whom I was talking just now?”
The elderly attendant answered, in precisely the same form of words:
“Merling, sir: Miss Ada Merling.”
XVIII
The front-door of the Hospice for Sick Governesses in Cavendish Street had not long closed behind the retreating figure of a swarthy, black-eyed young foreign gentleman when the pleasant-faced elderly woman whose duty it was to answer its bell brought to the Lady Superintendent a card upon a little inlaid tray. She took the card and smiled.
“Tell Mr. Bertham that I will come down in a few minutes. And I hope you did not call him ‘Master Robert’ this time, Husnuggle?”
“I did, Miss Ada, love, as sure as my name’s a queer one, and him a Secretary of State at War.”
“He is not Secretary at War now, Husnuggle, though he may be again. Who can tell, when Governments are always changing and Cabinets being made and remade?”