“No, Mrs. Hastings,” said St. George, “she did not say one word.  But she wrote something, and that is what I have come to bring you.”

“What was it—­some charm?” cried Mrs. Hastings.  “Oh, nobody knows what that kind of people may do.  I’ll meet any one face to face, but these juggling, incantation individuals appal me.  I have a brother who travels in the Orient, and he tells me about hideous things they do—­raising wheat and things,” she vaguely concluded.

“Ah!” said St. George quickly, “you have a brother—­in the Orient?”

“Oh, yes.  My brother Otho has traveled abroad I don’t know how many years.  We have a great many stamps.  I can’t begin to pronounce all the names,” the lady assured him.

“And this brother—­is he your niece, Miss Holland’s father?” St. George asked eagerly.

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Hastings severely; “I have only one brother, and it has been three years since I have seen him.”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Hastings,” said St. George, “this may be most important.  Will you tell me when you last heard from him and where he was?”

“I should have to look up the place,” she answered, “I couldn’t begin to pronounce the name, I dare say.  It was somewhere in the South Atlantic, ten months or more ago.”

“Ah,” St. George quietly commented.

“Well, and now this frightful creature,” resumed Mrs. Hastings, “do, pray, tell me what it was she wrote.”

St. George produced the paper.

“That is it,” he said.  “I fancy you will not know the street.  It is 19 McDougle Street, and the name is simply Tabnit.”

“Yes.  And is it a letter?” his hostess demanded, “and whatever does it say?”

“It is not a letter,” St. George explained patiently, “and this is all that it says.  The name is, I suppose, the name of a person.  I have made sure that there is such a number in the street.  I have seen the house.  But I have waited to consult you before going there.”

“Why, what is it you think?” Mrs. Hastings besought him.  “Do you think this person, whoever it is, can do something?  And whatever can he do?  Oh dear,” she ended, “I do want to act the way poor dear Mr. Hastings would have acted.  Only I know that he would have gone straight to Bitley, or wherever she is, and held a revolver at that mulatto creature’s head, and commanded her to talk English.  Mr. Hastings was a very determined character.  If you could have seen the poor dear man’s chin!  But of course I can’t do that, can I?  And that’s what I say to Olivia.  ’Olivia, one doesn’t need a man’s judgment if one will only use judgment oneself.’  What is it you think, Mr. St. George?”

Before St. George could reply there entered the room, behind a low announcement of his name, a man of sixty-odd years, nervous, slightly stooped, his smooth pale face unlighted by little deep-set eyes.

“Ah, Mr. Frothingham!” said Mrs. Hastings in evident relief, “you are just in time.  Mr. St. John was just telling me horrible things about this frightful mulatto creature.  This is Mr. St. John.  Mr. Frothingham is my lawyer and my brother Otho’s lawyer.  And so I telephoned him to come in and hear all about this.  And now do go on, Mr. St. John, about this hideous woman.  What is it you think?”