[THE WOMAN WITH ONE HAND]
"Mrs. Lascelles-Trevor's compliments, sir, and would you mind stepping upstairs?"
I had a lighted match in my hand, and was in the very act of applying it to the bowl of my pipe when the latest importation in waiters brought me the message.
"Mrs. Lascelles-Trevor?" I let the match go out. "And pray who may Mrs. Lascelles-Trevor be?"
"The lady who arrived to-day, sir, and who has taken a private sitting-room--No. 8."
"Indeed! And what does Mrs. Lascelles-Trevor want with me?"
"I don't know, sir; she asked me to give you her compliments, and would you be so kind as to step upstairs."
I stepped upstairs, wondering. I was received by a tall and somewhat ponderous woman, who was dressed in a dark-blue silk costume, almost as if she were going to a ball. She half rose from the couch as I came in, inclining her head in my direction with what struck me as a slightly patronising smile. She spoke in a loud, hearty tone of voice, which was marked by what struck me as being a Yorkshire twang.
"It is so good of you to come to see me, Mr. Southam. I was really more than half afraid to ask you. As it is, I beg ten thousand pardons, but I do so want you to write me a letter."
"To write you a letter? I am afraid I am a little slow of comprehension."