The doubt implied in that last answer decided Midwinter to investigate the matter on the spot. He ascended the house steps. As he raised his hand to the bell at the side of the door, the violence of his agitation mastered him physically for the moment. A strange sensation, as of something leaping up from his heart to his brain, turned his head wildly giddy. He held by the house railings and kept his face to the air, and resolutely waited till he was steady again. Then he rang the bell.
“Is?”—he tried to ask for “Mrs. Armadale,” when the maid-servant had opened the door, but not even his resolution could force the name to pass his lips—“is your mistress at home?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
The girl showed him into a back parlor, and presented him to a little old lady, with an obliging manner and a bright pair of eyes.
“There is some mistake,” said Midwinter. “I wished to see—” Once more he tried to utter the name, and once more he failed to force it to his lips.
“Mrs. Armadale?” suggested the little old lady, with a smile.
“Yes.”
“Show the gentleman upstairs, Jenny.”
The girl led the way to the drawing-room floor.
“Any name, sir?”