Lord Jocelyn walked slowly away in the direction of Stepney Green. She lived there, did she? Oh, and her name was Miss Kennedy; ah, and a man, by calling upon her, might see her. Very good—he would call. He would say that he was the guardian of Harry, and that he took a warm interest in him; and that the boy was pining away—which was not true; and that he called to know if Miss Kennedy as a friend would divine the cause—which was crafty. Quite a little domestic drama he made up in his own mind, which would have done beautifully had it not been completely shattered by the surprising things which happened, as will immediately be seen.
Presently he arrived at Stepney Green and stopped to look about him. A quiet, George-the-Third looking place, with many good and solid houses, and a narrow strip of garden running down the middle—in which of these houses did Miss Kennedy dwell?
There came along the asphalt walk an old, old man; he was feeble, and tottered as he went. He wore a black silk stock and a buttoned-up frock-coat. His face was wrinkled and creased. It was, in fact, Mr. Maliphant going rather late (because he had fallen asleep by the fire) to protect the property.
Lord Jocelyn asked him politely if he would tell him where Miss Kennedy lived.
The patriarch looked up, laughed joyously, and shook his head—then he said something inaudibly, but his lips moved; and then pointing to a large house on the right, he said aloud:
"Caroline Coppin's house it was—she that married Sergeant Goslett. Mr. Messenger, whose grandmother was a Coppin, and a good old Whitechapel family, had the deeds. My memory is not so good as usual this morning, young man, or I could tell you who had the house before Caroline's father; but I think it was old Mr. Messenger, because the young man who died the other day, and was only a year or two older than me, was born there himself." Then he went on his way, laughing and wagging his head.
"That is a wonderful old man," said Lord Jocelyn. "Caroline Coppin's house—that is, Harry's mother's house. Pity she couldn't keep it for her son—the sergeant was a thrifty man, too. Here is another native; let us try him."
This time it was Daniel Fagg, and in one of his despondent moods, because none of the promised proofs had arrived.
"Can you tell me, sir," asked Lord Jocelyn, "where Miss Kennedy lives?"