“Gone to Romford, if you wish to know, to see her mother.”
“Gone to Romford?”
“I said Romford, didn’t I?” retorted the raw-boned lady, tartly.
“What—what time do you expect her in?”
“Sunday evening, six o’clock,” replied the raw-boned lady.
Johnny looked at the raw-boned lady, imagined himself telling the raw-boned lady the simple, unvarnished truth, and the raw-boned lady’s utter disbelief of every word of it. An inspiration came to his aid.
“I am Mr. Bulstrode’s sister,” said Johnny meekly; “he’s expecting me.”
“Thought you said you lived here?” reminded him the raw-boned lady.
“I meant that he lived here,” replied poor Johnny still more meekly. “He has the second floor, you know.”
“I know,” replied the raw-boned lady. “Not in just at present.”
“Not in?”
“Went out at three o’clock.”
“I’ll go up to his room and wait for him,” said Johnny.
“No, you won’t,” said the raw-boned lady.
For an instant it occurred to Johnny to make a dash for it, but the raw-boned lady looked both formidable and determined. There would be a big disturbance—perhaps the police called in. Johnny had often wanted to see his name in print: in connection with this affair he somehow felt he didn’t.
“Do let me in,” Johnny pleaded; “I have nowhere else to go.”
“You have a walk and cool yourself,” suggested the raw-boned lady. “Don’t expect he will be long.”
“But, you see——”
The raw-boned lady slammed the door.
Outside a restaurant in Wellington Street, from which proceeded savoury odours, Johnny paused and tried to think.
“What the devil did I do with that umbrella? I had it—no, I didn’t. Must have dropped it, I suppose, when that silly ass tried to stop me. By Jove! I am having luck!”
Outside another restaurant in the Strand Johnny paused again. “How am I to live till Sunday night? Where am I to sleep? If I telegraph home—damn it! how can I telegraph? I haven’t got a penny. This is funny,” said Johnny, unconsciously speaking aloud; “upon my word, this is funny! Oh! you go to——.”
Johnny hurled this last at the head of an overgrown errand-boy whose intention had been to offer sympathy.
“Well, I never!” commented a passing flowergirl. “Calls ’erself a lidy, I suppose.”
“Nowadays,” observed the stud and button merchant at the corner of Exeter Street, “they make ’em out of anything.”