As I stared at him, a remark was made by the young lady who so narrowly escaped being made the subject of an experiment in carving. Although evidently very far from being as much herself as she might have been, she had pulled herself together a little, and was holding both hands up to her throat.
“You’re forgetting that Pollie’s lying perhaps worse than dead in Camford Street.”
Mr. Paine gave a jump.
“I had forgotten it!—upon my honour!”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Miss Blyth—to whom Miss Purvis refers as Pollie—is the niece of the Mr. Batters of whom we have been speaking. She’s his heiress, in fact.”
“His heiress?”
“Yes; his sole residuary legatee. Among other things he left her a house in Camford Street—No. 84—on somewhat mysterious conditions. For instance, she was to allow no man to enter it.”
“No man?”
“No; only she and one feminine friend were ever to be allowed to put their feet inside the door.”