She put in a portfolio certain drawings which she had risen at a very matutinal hour to make; the portfolio she placed beneath her arm, and, thus equipped, she sallied forth upon her errand. The street in which she had her lodging being of modest pretensions, was but little frequented by cabs. She had a five minutes' walk before she found one. And during that short promenade she was the object of so much attention, especially from the females as she passed, that she was glad when, seated in a hansom, she was at least partially concealed by the friendly apron.
She found the door of Mrs. Lamb's residence in Connaught Square wide open. On the steps stood a shabbily dressed man, with his hands in his trouser pockets, an ancient bowler pressed tightly down upon his head, and a clay pipe between his lips. When Margaret addressed him he moved neither his hat, nor himself, nor his pipe.
"Is Mrs. Lamb in?"
"From what the governor told me I shouldn't be surprised but what she's gone back to bed."
Margaret considered the man's words. His manner was not exactly rude, it was peculiar.
"Which is her bedroom?"
"That's more than I can tell you. I ain't been upstairs myself. I've got a bad leg, and ain't too fond of going up and down stairs, especially when there ain't no need of it. But you'll find it somewhere that way, I expect."
"May I ask who you are?"
"Me?" Taking his pipe out, the man drew the back of his hand across his lips. "I'm representing the landlord; that's what I am."
"Representing the landlord? Do you mean that you're a bailiff?"