“DEAR MRS. HANNAFORD—­I am distressed to hear that you suffer so in health.  Consult your brother; you will find that the only thing to do you good will be a complete change of climate and of habits.  You know how often I have urged this; if you had listened to me, you would by now have been both healthy and happy—­yes, happy.  Is it too late?  Don’t you value your life?  And don’t you care at all for the happiness of mine?  Meet me to-morrow, I beg, at the Museum, about eleven o’clock, and let us talk it all over once more.  Do be sensible; don’t wreck your life out of respect for social superstitions.  The thing once over, who thinks the worse of you?  Not a living creature for whom you need care.  You have suffered for years; put an end to it; the remedy is in your hands.  Ever yours,

D.O.”

CHAPTER XVI

A few days after her return, Irene left home in the morning to make an unceremonious call.  She was driven to Great Portland Street and alighted before a shop, which bore the number of the house she sought.  Having found the private entrance—­a door that stood wide open—­and after ringing once or twice without drawing anyone’s attention, she began to ascend the uncarpeted stairs.  At that moment there came down a young woman humming an air; a cheery-faced, solidly-built damsel, dressed with attention to broad effect in colours which were then—­or recently had been—­known as “aesthetic.”  With some diffidence, for the encounter was not of a kind common in her experience, Irene asked this person for a direction to the rooms occupied by Miss Hannaford.

“Oh, she’s my chum,” was the genial reply.  “Top floor, front.  You’ll find her there.”

With thanks the visitor passed on, but had not climbed half a dozen steps when the clear-sounding voice caused her to stop.

“Beg your pardon and all that kind of thing, but would you mind telling her that Tomkins is huffy?  I forgot to mention it before I came out.  Thanks, awfully.”

Puzzled, if not disconcerted, Miss Derwent reached the top floor and knocked.  A voice she recognised bade her enter.  She found herself in a bare-floored room, furnished with a table, a chair or two, and a divan, on the walls a strange exhibition of designs in glaring colours which seemed to be studies for street posters.  At the table, bending over a drawing-board, sat Olga Hannaford, her careless costume and the disorder of her hair suggesting that she had only just got up.  She recognised her visitor with some embarrassment.

“Irene—­I am so glad—­I really am ashamed—­we keep such hours here—­please don’t mind!”

“Not I, indeed!  What is there to mind?  I spoke to someone downstairs who gave me a message for you.  I was to say that Tomkins was huffy.  Do you understand?”

Olga bit her lip in vexation, and to restrain a laugh.

“No, that’s too bad!  But just like her.  That was the girl I live with—­Miss Bonnicastle.  She’s very nice really—­not a bit of harm in her; but she will play these silly practical jokes.”