She shook her head.
"We have no relations who will help us," she said. "It is true that my husband's father is still living—he is an old man, a clergyman. He has a small parish, and with difficulty makes both ends meet. It would be impossible to expect assistance from him." She sighed heavily as she spoke. Then she continued, with a naïveté which touched me: "Even at this terrible moment I cannot help thinking of the children, and of how they will suffer if our worst fears are fulfilled."
"Well," I said, in a cheerful tone, "we must hope for the best. The first thing is to find your husband. After that we must consider what is best to be done for him."
"Oh, can anything be done?" she asked, in a tone of supplication.
"We will see," I replied.
We arrived at the hotel and made inquiries. The name of Mainwaring was not in the visitors' book.
"That is nothing," I said, turning to Mrs. Mainwaring; "will you please describe your husband to the manager?"
She did so, entering into a minute and faithful description.
"A tall gentleman, broadly made, with a slight stoop," repeated the manager after her "He wears glasses, does he not, madam?"
"Sometimes, not always," she replied.