We crossed Trafalgar Square, and I saw by Big Ben that it was a quarter to six. I could not drive through London with her for an indefinite period. Besides, my half past seven dinner awaited me.
Why, oh, why has Judith gone to Paris? Had she been in town I could have shot Carlotta into Tottenham Mansions, and gone home to my dinner and Cristoforo da Costa with a light heart. Judith would have found Carlotta vastly entertaining. She would have washed her body and analysed her temperament. But Judith was in retreat with Delphine Carrere, and has left me alone to bear the responsibilities of life—and Carlotta.
The cab slowly mounted Waterloo Place. I had thought of my aunts as possible helpers, and rejected the idea. I had thought of a police station, a hotel, my lawyers (too late), a furnished lodging, a hospital. My mind was an aching blank.
“Where do you live?” asked Carlotta.
I looked at her and groaned. It was the only solution. “Up Regent’s Park way,” I replied, aware that she was none the wiser for the information.
I gave the address to the cabman through the trap-door in the roof.
“I’m going to take you home with me for to-night,” I said, severely. “I have an excellent French housekeeper who will look after your comfort. And to-morrow if that infernal young scoundrel of a lover of yours is not found, it will not be the fault of the police force of Great Britain.”
She laid her grubby little hand on mine. It was very soft and cool.
“You are cross with me. Why?”
I removed her hand.