“He is insistent,” said the maid, conscious of a twenty-rouble note tucked away in her stocking-top. She forced a visiting-card on her mistress.
“Send ’im away,” repeated Valeria Petrovna angrily. “Richard Eaton,” she read from the card. “I do not know ’im.”
“Madame, one moment,” said Marie Lou, quickly. “Richard Eaton, did you say? That is a friend of Monsieur Simon.”
“’Ow?” Valeria Petrovna turned sharply. “A friend of Simon — ’ow you know this?”
“He told me himself. His last words to me were: ‘If ever you get to London, go and see Richard Eaton at the National Club; tell him what has happened to us’.”
“Let ’im come in, then — ’e may ’ave news.”
The maid, who had been lingering by the door, smiled and beckoned to Richard, who was in the hall.
As he came in he looked at Valeria Petrovna with interest. He thought her more lovely in her déshabillé than when he had seen her in London. At the dusty figure of Marie Lou he hardly glanced, noticing only the intense blue of her eyes in her pale drawn face.
“I must apologize for troubling you like this,” he began, addressing Valeria Petrovna. “I did meet you in London, but I don’t suppose you’d remember that. I think you will remember a great friend of mine, though.”
“I ’ave remember’ you, Mistaire Eaton,” she smiled, graciously. “Not the name, but your face, at once — it is of Simon Aron that you speak, is it not?”