"But surely postmen do not deliver letters in this palatial dwelling," he laughed. "I thought the hall porter----"
"Oh, but this is a registered letter," she said importantly, "from America."
All the time Van Ingen was thinking out some method by which he might introduce the object of his visit. An idea struck him.
"Is your mother--" she looked blank, "er--aunt within?" he asked.
He saw the slow suspicion gathering on her face.
"I'm not a burglar," he smiled, "in spite of my alarming question, but I'm in rather a quandary. I've a friend--well, not exactly a friend--but I have business with Miss Dominguez, and----"
A quick step sounded in the passage, and the bearer of the king's mails, with a flat parcel in his hand and his eyes searching the door numbers, stopped before them.
"Hyatt?" he asked, glancing at the address.
"Yes," said the girl; "is that my parcel?"
"Hyatt?" murmured Van Ingen; "what an extraordinary coincidence. You are not by any chance related to the unfortunate young man the story of whose sad death has been filling the newspapers?"
"I knew of him," said Van Ingen quietly, "but I did not know you lived in London!"
"Nor do I," said the girl; "it is only by the great kindness of Miss Dominguez that I am here."
"Will you let me come in and talk with you?" Van Ingen said; then, as he saw again the evidence of her suspicion, "What I have to ask you is of the greatest importance to you and to me."
She hesitated, then led the way into a handsomely furnished sitting-room.
"First of all," said Van Ingen quietly, "you must tell me how Miss Dominguez found you."
"She came to Falmouth and sought me out. It was not difficult. I have a little millinery establishment there, and my name is well known. She came one morning, eight days--no--yes, it was seven days ago, and----"
"She said she had known Charles; he had some awfully swagger friends; that is what got him into trouble at the post-office; it was a great blow to us, because----"
"What did she want?" asked Van Ingen, cutting short the loquacity.
"She said that Charles had something of hers--a book which she had lent him, years before. Now, the strange thing was that on the very day poor Charles was killed I had a telegram which ran: 'If anything happens, tell Escoltier book is at Antaxia, New York.' It was unsigned, and I did not connect it with Charles. You see, I hadn't heard from him for years.