“No; but I don’t know how long yet. Is Jane all right?”
“She has been looking out of the window, Miladi, the whole way. She is in ecstasy. Dogs have no judgment, Miladi.”
When Lady Ingleton was in her sitting-room at the Adelphi Hotel, and had had the fire lighted and tea brought up, she asked to see the manager for a moment. He came almost immediately, a small man, very smart, very trim, self-possessed as a attache.
“I hope you are quite comfortable, my lady,” he said, in a thin voice which held no note of doubt. “Can I do anything for you?”
“I wanted to ask you if you knew the address of some one I wish to send a note to—Mr. Robertson. He’s a clergyman who—”
“Do you mean Father Robertson, of Holy Cross, Manxby Street, my lady?”
“Of Holy Cross; yes, that’s it.”
“He lives at—”
“Wait a moment. I’ll take it down.”
She went to the writing-table and took up a pen.