“Bother your heart,” said Bashwood the younger. “Wait here while I make the inquiries.”
“I’ll come with you!” cried his father. “I can’t wait! I tell you, I can’t wait!”
They went into the hotel together, and asked for “Mr. Armadale.”
The answer, after some little hesitation and delay, was that Mr. Armadale had gone away six days since. A second waiter added that Mr. Armadale’s friend—Mr. Midwinter—had only left that morning. Where had Mr. Armadale gone? Somewhere into the country. Where had Mr. Midwinter gone? Nobody knew.
Mr. Bashwood looked at his son in speechless and helpless dismay.
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Bashwood the younger, pushing his father back roughly into the cab. “He’s safe enough. We shall find him at Miss Gwilt’s.”
The old man took his son’s hand and kissed it. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, gratefully. “Thank you for comforting me.”
The cab was driven next to the second lodging which Miss Gwilt had occupied, in the neighborhood of Tottenham Court Road.
“Stop here,” said the spy, getting out, and shutting his father into the cab. “I mean to manage this part of the business myself.”
He knocked at the house door. “I have got a note for Miss Gwilt,” he said, walking into the passage, the moment the door was opened.