‘I will do nothing further,’ I said, ‘without consulting his lordship.’
‘His lordship?’ He shrugged his shoulders, laughing contemptuously.
‘Her ladyship, then.’
He paused a moment.
‘Yes,’ he said; ‘you’re right.’ A new light seemed to break on him. ‘Yes,’ he repeated; ‘we’ll go at once on the chance of finding her at home. It is only seven now. Let’s call a coach.’
So back we drove to Grosvenor Square, both in deep thought. Arrived at the house, he took me into a small room, off the hall, and kept me waiting there for the best part of an hour. I began to wonder, indeed, if he had forgotten me altogether, and whether I had not best ring and make some enquiry of the servants.
The room was dimly lit with wax candles, set in sconces high on the silk-panelled wall; yet not so dimly but that, when the Colonel at last returned, I could see he looked pale and agitated, while his hands and lips trembled as he spoke. And my mind carried back to the day of the meet at Vendale Green, when her ladyship—Queen of Beauty that she was—stepped down from her pony-chaise, and stood on the damp turf beside his great bay horse, talking to him; and how, straightening himself up with a jerk, his face grey and aged as that of a man smitten with sudden illness, he answered her: ‘Impossible, utterly impossible’; and how she, turning, with a light laugh, got into the pony-chaise again, waving her hand to him and wishing him good fortune.
‘Yes—you are to go,’ he said to me hurriedly. ‘See Hartover at once. His address is number ⸺ Church Lane, Chelsea. You’ll remember?’
‘I shall.’