"I saw her this morning," St. George said. "I went up to the Reformatory in Westchester, and I spoke with her."
"Mercy!" ejaculated Mrs. Hastings, "I wonder she didn't tear your eyes out. Did they have her in a cage or in a cell? What was the creature about?"
"She was in a missionary meeting at the moment," St. George explained, smiling.
"Mercy!" said Mrs. Hastings in exactly the same tone. "Some trick, I expect. That's what I warn Olivia: 'So few things nowadays are done through necessity or design.' Nearly everything is a trick. Every invention is a trick--a cultured trick, one might say. Murder is a trick, I suppose, to a murderer. That's why civilization is bad for morals, don't you think? Well, and so she talked with you?"
"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."