“I wish Mr. Wynter had been at home,” she said after a minute’s pause, during which she was turning over the papers in the desk, and Maurice was watching her eagerly.  “He would have been able to tell you something of your friends, for he only returned home a week or two ago from meeting them.”

“Are they in Paris?”

“Yes.  Are you returning to Canada?”

“No.  Perhaps, Mrs. Wynter, you would like to have my address?  My coming to you as I have done, without credentials of any sort, must certainly seem strange.”

“Thank you; you will understand that I feel in some little difficulty.”

“I understand perfectly.”  He wrote his name and address in full and gave it to her.  “Mrs. Costello was a dear friend of my mother’s,” he said; “she has always treated me almost as a son, and I cannot help hoping that what I have to say to her may be welcome news.”

“Do you expect to see her, then, or only to write?”

“I am on my way to Paris.  I hope to see them.”

“Here is the address.  You have had a long journey, the servant told me.”

“From Hunsdon.  And the journey out of Norfolk into Cheshire is a tiresome one.  Thank you very much.  Can I take any message to Mrs. Costello?”

“None, thank you, except our kindest remembrances.  But you will let me offer you something—­at least a glass of wine?”

But Maurice had now got all he wanted.  He just glanced at the precious paper, put it away safely, declined Mrs. Wynter’s offers, and was out of the house and on his way back to Chester in a very short space of time.

“What an odd thing!” Mrs. Wynter said as she settled herself comfortably in the easy-chair again.

“Who was he, mamma?  What did he want?”

“He was a Canadian friend of your cousin Mary’s wanting her address.”

“What! come over from Canada on purpose?”

“It almost seemed like it, though that could not be, I suppose, for here is his address—­’Maurice Leigh Beresford, Hunsdon, Norfolk.’”

“Beresford?” said the widow, “Why the Beresfords of Hunsdon are great people—­very grand people, indeed.  I used to know something of them.”

“Did he look like a grand person, mamma?”

“He seemed a gentleman, certainly.  I know no more.”

“Was he young or old?”

“Young.”

“Handsome or ugly?”

“Need he be either?”

“Of course.  Which, mamma?”

“Not ugly, decidedly.  Tall, and rather dark, with a very frank, honest-looking face.”

“Young, handsome, tall, dark, and honest-looking!  Mamma, he’s a hero of romance, especially coming as he did, in the rain and the night.”

“Don’t be silly, Tiny.  Mamma, is not my cousin Lucia a great beauty?”

CHAPTER X.