“Of Holy Cross; yes, that’s it.”

“He lives at—­”

“Wait a moment.  I’ll take it down.”

She went to the writing-table and took up a pen.

“Now, please!”

“The Rev. George Robertson, Holy Cross Rectory, Manxby Street, my lady.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Can I do anything more for you, my lady?”

“Please send me up a messenger in twenty minutes.  Mr. Robertson is in Liverpool, I understand?”

“I believe so, my lady.  He is generally here.  Holidays and pleasure are not much in his way.  The messenger will be up in twenty minutes.”

He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and went softly out, holding himself very erect.

Lady Ingleton sat down by the tea-table.  Annette was unpacking in the adjoining bedroom, and Turkish Jane was reposing in an arm-chair near the hearth.

“What would Carey think of me, if he knew?” was her thought, as she poured out the tea.

Sir Carey was at his post in Constantinople.  She had left him and come to England to see her mother, who had been very ill, but who was now much better.  When she had left Constantinople she had not known she was coming to Liverpool, but she had known that something was intruding upon her happiness, was worrying at her mind.  Only when she found herself once more in England did she understand that she could not return to Turkey without making an effort to do a good deed.  She had very little hope that her effort would be efficacious, but she knew that she had to make it.

It was quite a new role for her, the role of Good Samaritan.  She smiled faintly as she thought that.  How would she play it?

After tea she wrote this note: 

“ADELPHI HOTEL, Tuesday

“DEAR MR. ROBERTSON,—­As you will not know who I am, I must explain myself.  My husband, Sir Carey Ingleton, is Ambassador at Constantinople.  Out there we have made acquaintance with Mr. Dion Leith, who had the terrible misfortune to kill his little boy nearly a year and a half ago.  I want very much to speak to you about him.  I will explain why when I see you if you have the time to spare me an interview.  I would gladly welcome you here, or I could come to you.  Which do you prefer?  I am telling the messenger to wait for an answer.  To be frank, I have come to Liverpool on purpose to see you.—­Yours sincerely,

“DELIA INGLETON”

The messenger came back without an answer.  Father Robertson was out, but the note would be given to him as soon as he came home.

That evening, just after nine o’clock, he arrived at the hotel, and sent up his name to Lady Ingleton.

“Please ask him to come up,” she said to the German waiter who had mispronounced his name.

As she waited for her visitor she was conscious of a faint creeping of shyness through her.  It made her feel oddly girlish.  When had she last felt shy?  She could not remember.  It must have been centuries ago.