Part 70 (1/2)

”Hornets' nests?”

”Yes. Where a good many lawyers live, or used to live.”

”Oh, I see!” And she smiled responsively to what he evidently intended as a brilliant satirical joke. ”But is it easy to get there?”

”Quite easy. Take a 'bus.”

”From the station?”

”Of course!”

And he subsided into silence.

She asked no more questions, and on her arrival at Paddington confided her anxieties to a friendly porter, who, announcing that he was ”from Somerset born himself and would see her through,” gave her concise directions which she attentively followed; with the result that despite much bewilderment in getting in and getting out of omnibuses, and jostling against more people than she had ever seen in the course of her whole life, she found herself at last at the entrance of a rather obscure-looking s.m.u.tty little pa.s.sage, guarded by a couple of round columns, on which were painted in black letters a considerable number of names, among which were those of ”Vesey and Symonds.” The numeral inscribed above the entrance to this pa.s.sage corresponded to the number on the address of the packet which she carried for ”Mr. Bulteel”--but though she read all the names on the two columns, ”Bulteel” was not among them. Nevertheless, she made her way perseveringly into what seemed nothing but a little blind alley leading nowhere, and as she did so, a small boy came running briskly down a flight of dark stairs, which were scarcely visible from the street, and nearly knocked her over.

”'Ullo! Beg pardon 'm! Which office d' ye want?”

”Is there,” began Mary, in her gentle voice--”is there a Mr.

Bulteel----?”

”Bulteel? Yes--straight up--second floor--third door--Vesey and Symonds!”

With these words jerked out of himself at lightning speed, the boy rushed past her and disappeared.

With a beating heart Mary cautiously climbed the dark staircase which he had just descended. When she reached the second floor, she paused. There were three doors all facing her,--on the first one was painted the name of ”Sir Francis Vesey”--on the second ”Mr. John Symonds”--and on the third ”Mr. Bulteel.” As soon as she saw this last, she heaved a little sigh of relief, and going straight up to it knocked timidly. It was opened at once by a young clerk who looked at her questioningly.

”Mr. Bulteel?” she asked, hesitatingly.

”Yes. Have you an appointment?”

”No. I am quite a stranger,” she said. ”I only wish to tell Mr. Bulteel of the death of some one he knows.”

The clerk glanced at her and seemed dubious.

”Mr. Bulteel is very busy,” he began--”and unless you have an appointment----”

”Oh, please let me see him!” And Mary's eyes almost filled with tears.

”See!”--and she held up before him the packet she carried. ”I've travelled all the way from Weircombe, in Somerset, to bring him this from his dead friend, and I promised to give it to him myself. Please, please do not turn me away!”

The clerk stared hard at the superscription on the packet, as he well might. For he had at once recognised the handwriting of David Helmsley.

But he suppressed every outward sign of surprise, save such as might appear in a glance of unconcealed wonder at Mary herself. Then he said briefly--

”Come in!”

She obeyed, and was at once shut in a stuffy cupboard-like room which had no other furniture than an office desk and high stool.

”Name, please!” said the clerk.

She looked startled--then smiled.