eplied Elsie hastily. "She was some one who lived with Mrs.
Penn."

"Ah, there was a young lady who occupied one room at the top of the
house, and did pictures for the papers and cheap magazines. I never saw
her, but Mrs. Penn spoke of her once or twice, and seemed mightily
concerned when she died."

"Then Mrs. Penn spoke to you of her death?" Elsie said breathlessly.

"Yes; she was a weak-minded woman, Mrs. Penn was, and allowed herself to
be upset by trifles. She said that Miss Somebody was dead--I never could
remember names; the name don't matter--and she had called to ask if I
wanted any furniture. I said I'd take a couple of small tables and an
arm-chair if she'd let me have 'em cheap. I knew she'd got some good,
substantial old things."

"And had this furniture been in the young lady's room?" asked Elsie.

"Some of it had, I suppose. She told me that she didn't mean to let the
room again; she was going to sleep in it herself," she said, "because it
was large and light."

There was a brief pause. The clatter of teacups in the kitchen warned
Elsie that she had trespassed on the old woman's patience long enough. A
tabby cat, which had been asleep by the fire, got up, stretched itself,
and came purring round its mistress's chair.

"Pussy knows it's tea-time," said Mrs. Tryon, bending down to stroke the
creature.

Elsie rose to depart.

"One word more," she said, stooping to bring her lips closer to the deaf
ear.

Mrs. Tryon glanced up impatiently.

"I never could stand many questions," she muttered.

"Only one more. Did Mrs. Penn ever mention a little boy who lived with
the poor young lady?"

"Never," the old woman answered. "And now that's the end of it all, I
hope. I shall let my niece, Dodge, know what I think of her for sending
folks to trouble me in my old age. Mrs. Penn was no great friend of
mine. I never went inside her door more than twice, and I never set eyes
on the artist-lady, living or dead. As to the number of her house, it's
gone clean out of my mind!"

The interview was ended; and as Elsie went forth again into the
afternoon sunshine she felt a chill of disappointment.

She had learnt definitely that Meta had lived and died in Mrs. Penn's
house, that the house was in Soho Square, and that was all. There was
nothing about Jamie; and it was Jamie, not Meta, who was the object of
her search.

The air was fresh and sweet. A little puff of wind blew the scent of
hyacinths into her fac