Who could it be? I run over in my mind all of my African female acquaintances—not large—but not one of them answered the description given by Mrs. McTravers.
I was about proceeding up stairs, when she said, "ye'll surely go and see the sick lady." I had a slight internal intimation that I was nearly losing my patience.
"Mrs. McTravers, what is it about a sick lady? You have not told me a word about anybody, sick or well, except a negro woman, and you have not told me what she wanted."
"And sure, then, I thought you knew all about it. The wench said you knew the lady."
"I know a good many, but how can I tell which one of my acquaintances this may be?"
"Why sure, then I thought you would know when I told you where she lived."
"In the name of common sense, Mrs. McTravers, if you know who the sick woman is, or where she lives, or what she wants, why don't you tell me?"
"Wasn't I going to, only you put me into such a flusteration? There, sure, that'll tell you all about it."
And she handed me a piece of paper, on which was written, in a very delicate lady hand, though evidently nervous, "Madame De Vrai, 53 W—street."
I am sure I must have looked like a living specimen of confusion worse confounded. The name I had never heard before. The street was an unknown locality. I only knew it was a street on the west side of the city, somewhere, and whether it had such a number as "53," was entirely too much for my arithmetic. I determined not to go. Still there was a mystery, that natural curiosity prompted me to solve. Who could it be? "Did the black woman say that I was acquainted with the lady?"