He meant to shove the envelope into the woman's hand and then—brrr, brrr!—home . . . to bed . . . warm . . . warm. . . .
"Don't you know, then, where the young lady is, sir?"
"Where she is?"
"Where she's gone to?"
"Has she gone?"
"She didn't come home yesterday afternoon. I don't say I'm anxious; but still she always used to come home of an evening. She owes me some money, but she hasn't run away . . . for everything has been left as it was, upstairs: her clothes, her bits of jewellery. . . ."
"Perhaps she's out of town. . . ."
"Perhaps . . . only she's taken nothing with her."
"Perhaps, all the same . . ."
"Yes . . . it's possible. . . . So I'm to give her the envelope . . . when she comes?"
"Yes. . . . Or no, no, give it to me . . . I'll see to it myself. . . . Or no, you'd better give it her when she comes back. . . . No, after all, I'll see to it. . . ."
He stuffed the envelope into his pocket, went off. Brrr! It lay on his chest like a plank. . . . Where could she be gone to? Where was Pauline gone to? Had she gone out of town? . . . Why hadn't he simply left the envelope? Well, you never knew:
