“No, sir,” he said, “she is not in town at all. Speaking confidentially, sir, Miss Berrington’s that peculiar she don’t like New York. Her ladyship—I beg your pardon, sir—Miss Berrington is at her country ’ome some distance out of town, sir.”
“How far? Where is it?”
“On a lake, sir. I don’t quite remember its name. Begins with a h’S, I think, sir.”
“Lake Saratoga?” suggested Steele.
“It begins with a h’S, sir,” repeated the man thoughtfully; then with a sudden burst of inspiration: “Oh, yes, sir, Superior—Lake Superior, sir.”
“Great Heavens!” cried Steele, unable to repress a smile, “that isn’t just exactly in the environs of New York. I suppose you couldn’t tell me whether the house is on the Canadian or the United States side?”
“No, sir, I couldn’t say, sir, being it’s in Michigan, sir.”
“Oh, well, that’s near enough; I can guess the rest.” The man in plush pronounced the name of the State as if the first syllable were spelt M-i-t-c-h.
“Yes, sir, her ladyship—beg your pardon—Miss Berrington owns a large estate there, so they tell me—thousands and thousands of acres, all covered with forests, and there’s a big ’ouse full of servants; but her lady—but Miss Berrington receives nobody, sir. Not if you brought a letter from the King of Hengland, sir.”
“Ha! rather exclusive, isn’t she?”