“Ingram,” he said, after a minute, “could you take some money from me, without her knowing of it, and try to get her some of the little things she likes—some delicacies, you know; they might be smuggled in, as it were, without her knowing who paid for them? There was ice-pudding, you know, with strawberries in it, that she was fond of—”
“My dear fellow, a woman in her position thinks of something else than ice-pudding in strawberries.”
“But why shouldn’t she have it all the same? I would give twenty pounds to get some little gratification of that sort conveyed to her; and if you could try, Ingram—”
“My dear fellow, she has got everything she can want; there was no ice-pudding at luncheon, but doubtless there will be at dinner.”
So Sheila was staying in a house in which ices could be prepared? Lavender’s suggestion had had no cunning intention in it, but here was an obvious piece of information. She was in no humble lodging-house, then. She was either staying with some friends—and she had no friend but Lavender’s friends—or she was staying at a hotel. He remembered that she had once dined at the Langham, Mrs. Kavanagh having persuaded her to go to meet some American visitors. Might she have gone thither?
Lavender was somewhat silent during the rest of that meal, for he was thinking of other things besides the mere question as to where Sheila might be staying. He was trying to imagine what she might have felt before she was driven to this step. He was trying to recall all manner of incidents of their daily life that he now saw might have appeared to her in a very different light from that in which he saw them. He was wondering, too, how all this could be altered, and a new life begun for them both, if that were still possible.
They had gone up stairs into the smoking-room when a card was brought to Lavender.
“Young Mosenberg is below,” he said to Ingram. “He will be a livelier companion for you than I could be. Waiter, ask this gentleman to come up.”
The handsome Jew boy came eagerly into the room, with much excitement visible on his face.
“Oh, do you know,” he said to Lavender, “I have found out where Mrs. Lavender is—yes. She is at your aunt’s house. I saw her this afternoon for one moment—” He stopped, for he saw by the vexation on Ingram’s face that he had done something wrong. “Is it a mistake?” he said. “Is it a secret?”