This was to write a note to Mrs. Medora Hastings, Miss Holland’s aunt.  The note set forth that for reasons which he would, if he might, explain later, he was interested in the woman who had recently made an attempt upon her niece’s life; that he had seen the woman and had obtained an address which he was confident would lead to further information about her.  This address, he added, he preferred not to disclose to the police, but to Mrs. Hastings or Miss Holland herself, and he begged leave to call upon them if possible that day.  He despatched the note by Rollo, whom he instructed to deliver it, not at the desk, but at the door of Mrs. Hastings’ apartment, and to wait for an answer.  He watched with pleasure Rollo’s soft departure, recalling the days when he had sent a messenger boy to some inaccessible threshold, himself stamping up and down in the cold a block or so away to await the boy’s return.

Rollo was back almost immediately.  Mrs. Hastings and Miss Holland were not at home.  St. George eyed his servant severely.

“Rollo,” he said, “did you go to the door of their apartment?”

“No, sir,” said Rollo stiffly, “the elevator boy told me they was out, sir.”

“Showing,” thought St. George, “that a valet and a gentleman is a very poor newspaper man.”

“Now go back,” he said pleasantly, “go up in the elevator to their door.  If they are not in, wait in the lower hallway until they return.  Do you get that?  Until they return.”

“You’ll want me back by tea-time, sir?” ventured Rollo.

“Wait,” St. George repeated, “until they return.  At three.  Or six.  Or nine o’clock.  Or midnight.”

“Very good, sir,” said Rollo impassively, “it ain’t always wise, sir, for a man to trust to his own judgment, sir, asking your pardon.  His judgment,” he added, “may be a bit of the ape left in him, sir.”

St. George smiled at this evolutionary pearl and settled himself comfortably by the open fire to await Rollo’s return.  It was after three o’clock when he reappeared.  He brought a note and St. George feverishly tore it open.

“Whom did you see?  Were they civil to you?” he demanded.

“I saw a old lady, sir,” said Rollo irreverently.  “She didn’t say a word to me, sir, but what she didn’t say was civiler than many people’s language.  There’s a great deal in manner, sir,” declaimed Rollo, brushing his hat with his sleeve, and his sleeve with his handkerchief, and shaking the handkerchief meditatively over the coals.

St. George read the note at a glance and with unspeakable relief.  They would see him.  A refusal would have delayed and annoyed him just then, in the flood-tide of his hope.

“My Dear Mr. St. George,” the note ran.  “My niece is not at
home, and I can not tell how your suggestion will be received
by her, though it is most kind.  I may, however, answer for
myself that I shall be glad to see you at four o’clock this
afternoon. 
“Very truly yours,
“MEDORA HASTINGS.”