I rang the bell, and after a short wait the door was opened by a little maid about the size and age of Gertie 'Uggins, dressed in a cap and a print frock.
"Is Miss Vivien in?" I asked boldly.
She shook her head. "Miss Vivien's out. 'Ave you got an appointment?"
"No," I said. "I only want to know where Mr. Morrison is, and when he's coming back. There's a notice on his door asking that any letters or telegrams should be left here, so I thought Miss Vivien might know."
She looked me up and down, with a faint air of suspicion.
"'E's away in 'is boat," she said shortly. "'E won't be back not till
Thursday."
So Tommy still kept up his sailing! This at least was news, and news which had a rather special interest for me. I wondered whether the "boat" was the same little seven-tonner, the Betty, in which we had spent so many cheerful hours together off the Crouch and the Blackwater.
"Thanks," I said; and then after a moment's pause I added, "I suppose if I addressed a letter here it would be forwarded?"
"I s'pose so," she admitted a little grudgingly.
There seemed to be nothing more to say, so bidding the damsel good-night, I walked off down the passage and out on to the embankment. If I had drawn a blank as far as seeing Tommy was concerned, my evening had not been altogether fruitless. I felt vastly curious as to who Miss Vivien might be. Somehow or other I couldn't picture Tommy with a woman in his life. In the old days, partly from shyness and partly, I think, because they honestly bored him, he had always avoided girls with a determination that at times bordered on rudeness. And yet, unless all the signs were misleading, it was evident that he and his next-door neighbour were on fairly intimate terms. The most probable explanation seemed to me that she was some elderly lady artist who darned his socks for him, and shed tears in secret over the state of his wardrobe. There was a magnificent uncouthness about Tommy which would appeal irresistibly to a certain type of motherly woman.