Mrs. Holl was, as usual, at home, but was unable to give Alice any intelligence as to Stephen Walker.
“Can I come in, Mrs. Holl? I want very much to ask you a question or two.”
“Yes, ma'am, and welcome; but the place is all in a litter, for it's my washing day, and I've been thrown a little back, for my eldest boy's had a sort of fever. He's better to-day, though, and the doctor says there's nothing fectious in it.”
So saying, Mrs. Holl showed Alice into the room, which was filled with a warm, soapy steam.
“Thank you; I will not sit down,” Alice said, as Mrs. Holl began to polish the seat of one of the chairs with her apron. “I have called to ask you about a very sad and distressing affair. I mean about Mr. Walker's daughter. As you know him well, of course you are aware of the circumstances.”
“Yes, poor young thing!” Mrs. Holl said; “I know as much as anyone knows, except her father. Leastways, we know she's dead and buried.”
“Mrs. Holl, it is a terrible thing to say, but a very great friend of mine—I may almost say a brother—has been accused by Mr. Walker of having been the cause of this. I need not say how distressed we all are, and how anxious to know something of this unfortunate girl.”
“He must be a very bad man, ma'am, saving your presence; but I don't want to speak badly of anyone. It's not my business, and the Almighty knows how to punish.”
“What I want to ask you, Mrs. Holl—and I am sure, now you know how greatly I am interested in the matter, you will frankly tell me the truth—was this unfortunate girl a good girl? was she always looked upon before this as a good, innocent girl, because we have only heard of it from her father?”
“Yes, miss. Carry Walker was one of the best of girls; one of the kindest, best-hearted, innocentest, brightest girls you'd ever see. Every one spoke well of her. She was one of the best of girls.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Holl,” Alice said, sadly; “that is all I wanted to know. Good morning.”
And Alice, with a very sad heart, went back to Lowndes Square. She had nothing to do now but to wait for Frank's answer, and she could derive even less hope than before from this.
IT was evening when Frank Maynard arrived home from his honeymoon with his wife. He had taken a house in the then new neighbourhood, Thurloe Square, Brompton; and Katie, despite the fatigue of the journey from Paris, insisted on immediately going over it all, and in admiring all its arrangements. Very proud was the young husband of the trim little figure, as it tripped through the rooms.