Baltazar let himself into the house in Sussex Gardens, and went straight to Godfrey’s room. He found him writing hard. When the young man sprang up, his quiet eye noted the desk strewn with many sheets of notepaper.
“Writing to her, I suppose.”
“It’s not altogether unnatural,” Godfrey replied in stiff hostility.
“Where are you going to address it?”
Godfrey, looking into the infernal eyes, saw that it was not an idle and impertinent question. Besides, he had spent a very agitated hour, gnawed by bitter disappointment and impotent anger and torturing his brain with conjecture as to what had happened.
“Where is Lady Edna, sir?” he asked.
“She has gone to stay with Lady Ralston.”
“Her mother?”
“The Dowager Countess of Ralston is, I believe, her mother,” said Baltazar.