“It is,” said I. “You went to see Madame Brandt.”
“I did,” she replied, looking at me steadily, “and I have tried to write to you, but it is more difficult than I thought.”
“Well,” said I, “it's no use writing now, for you've managed to drive her out of the country.”
She half rose in her chair and regarded me with wide-blue eyes.
“I've driven her out of the country?”
“Yes; with her maid and her belongings and Anastasius Papadopoulos's troupe of performing cats, and Anastasius Papadopoulos's late pupil and assistant Quast. She has given up her comfortable home in London and now proposes to be a wanderer among the music-halls of Europe.”
“But that's not my fault! Indeed, it isn't.”
“She says in a letter I received this morning bearing no address, that if you hadn't come to her like God's good angel, she would have remained in London.”
Eleanor looked bewildered. “I thought I had made it perfectly clear to her.”
“Made what clear?”