'Oh . . . I thought you come from Belfrey's, mum. It's to let.'
The caretaker nodded towards the right and Victoria, following the direction, saw the house agents' board. Her excitement fell as under a cold douche.
'Oh! I came to see . . . Do you know where Mr Holt is?'
'Mr Holt's dead, mum. Died in August, mum.'
'Dead.' Things seemed to go round. Jack was the only son . . . then?'
'Yes, mum. That's why they're letting. A fine big 'ouse, mum. Died in August, mum. Ah, you should have seen the funeral. They say he left half a million, mum, and there wasn't no will.'
'Where is Mrs Holt and . . . and Mr Holt's son.'
The caretaker eyed the visitor suspiciously. There was something rakish about this young lady which frightened her respectability.
'I can't say, mum,' she answered slowly. 'I could forward a letter, mum,' she added.
'Let me come in. I want to write a note.'