An hour later, her cab stopped before the Wagges’
door in Frankland Street. But just as she was
about to ring the bell, a voice from behind her said:
“Allow me; I have a key. What may I—Oh,
it’s you!” She turned. Mr. Wagge,
in professional habiliments, was standing there.
“Come in; come in,” he said. “I
was wondering whether perhaps we shouldn’t be
seeing you after what’s transpired.”
Hanging his tall black hat, craped nearly to the crown,
on a knob of the mahogany stand, he said huskily:
“I did think we’d seen the last of
that,” and opened the dining-room door.
“Come in, ma’am. We can put our
heads together better in here.”
In that too well remembered room, the table was laid
with a stained white cloth, a cruet-stand, and bottle
of Worcestershire sauce. The little blue bowl
was gone, so that nothing now marred the harmony of
red and green. Gyp said quickly:
“Doesn’t Daph—Daisy live at
home, then, now?”
The expression on Mr. Wagge’s face was singular;
suspicion, relief, and a sort of craftiness were blended
with that furtive admiration which Gyp seemed always
to excite in him.
“Do I understand that you—er—”
“I came to ask if Daisy would do something for
me.”
Mr. Wagge blew his nose.
“You didn’t know—” he
began again.
“Yes; I dare say she sees my husband, if that’s
what you mean; and I don’t mind—he’s
nothing to me now.”
Mr. Wagge’s face became further complicated
by the sensations of a husband.
“Well,” he said, “it’s not
to be wondered at, perhaps, in the circumstances.
I’m sure I always thought—”
Gyp interrupted swiftly.
“Please, Mr. Wagge—please!
Will you give me Daisy’s address?”
Mr. Wagge remained a moment in deep thought; then
he said, in a gruff, jerky voice:
“Seventy-three Comrade Street, So’o.
Up to seeing him there on Tuesday, I must say I cherished
every hope. Now I’m sorry I didn’t
strike him—he was too quick for me—”
He had raised one of his gloved hands and was sawing
it up and down. The sight of that black object
cleaving the air nearly made Gyp scream, her nerves
were so on edge. “It’s her blasted
independence—I beg pardon—but
who wouldn’t?” he ended suddenly.
Gyp passed him.
“Who wouldn’t?” she heard his voice
behind her. “I did think she’d have
run straight this time—” And while
she was fumbling at the outer door, his red, pudgy
face, with its round grey beard, protruded almost
over her shoulder. “If you’re going
to see her, I hope you’ll—”
Gyp was gone. In her cab she shivered.
Once she had lunched with her father at a restaurant
in the Strand. It had been full of Mr. Wagges.
But, suddenly, she thought: ‘It’s
hard on him, poor man!’
Seventy-three Comrade Street, Soho, was difficult
to find; but, with the aid of a milk-boy, Gyp discovered
the alley at last, and the right door. There
her pride took sudden alarm, and but for the milk-boy’s
eyes fixed on her while he let out his professional
howl, she might have fled. A plump white hand
and wrist emerging took the can, and Daphne Wing’s
voice said:
