“I suppose so.”

No more words were interchanged till they reached Gower street, when Miss Hilary observed, with evident surprise, what a handsome street it was.

“I must have made some mistake.  Still we will find out Mr. Ascott’s number, and inquire.”

No, there was no mistake.  Mr. Ascott Leaf had lodged there for three months, but had given up his rooms that very morning.

“Where had he gone to?”

The servant—­a London lodging house servant all over—­didn’t know; but she fetched the landlady, who was after the same pattern of the dozen London landladies with whom Hilary had that day made acquaintance, only a little more Cockney, smirking, dirty, and tawdrily fine.

“Yes, Mr. Leaf had gone, and he hadn’t left no address.  Young College gentlemen often found it convenient to leave no address.  P’raps he would if he’d known there would be a young lady a calling to see him.”

“I am Mr. Leaf’s aunt,” said Hilary, turning as hot as fire.

“Oh, in-deed,” was the answer, with civil incredulousness.

But the woman was sharp of perception—­as often-cheated London landladies learn to be.  After looking keenly at mistress and maid, she changed her tone; nay, even launched out into praises of her late lodger:  what a pleasant gentleman he was; what good company he kept, and how he had promised to recommend her apartments to his friends.

“And as for the little some’at of rent, Miss—­tell him it makes no matter, he can pay me when he likes.  If he don’t call soon p’raps I might make bold to send his trunk and his books over to Mr. Ascott’s of—­dear me, I forget the number and the square.”

Hilary unsuspiciously supplied both.

“Yes, that’s it—­the old gen’leman as Mr. Leaf went to dine with every other Sunday, a very rich old gentleman, who, he says, is to leave him all his money.  Maybe a relation of yours, Miss?”

“No,” said Hilary; and adding something about the landlady’s hearing from Mr. Leaf very soon, she hurried out of the house, Elizabeth following.

“Won’t you be tired if you walk so fast, Miss Hilary?”

Hilary stopped, choking.  Helplessly she looked up and down the forlorn, wide, glaring, dusty street; now sinking into the dull shadow of a London afternoon.

“Let us go home!” And at the word a sob burst out—­just one passionate pent up sob.  No more.  She could not afford to waste strength in crying.

“As you say, Elizabeth, I am getting tired, and that will not do.  Let me see; something must be decided.”  And she stood still, passing her hand over her hot brow and eyes.  “I will go back and take the lodgings, leave you there to make all comfortable, and then fetch my sisters from the hotel.  But stay first, I have forgotten something.”

She returned to the house in Gower Street, and wrote on one of her cards an address—­the only permanent address she could think of—­that of the city broker who was in the habit of paying them their yearly income of £50.