Vimpany.
The doctor's wife was well acquainted with Lord Harry's past life, when
he happened to be in Ireland; and she had met many of his countrymen
with whom he had associated. If one of those friends happened to be the
officious person who had written to him, it was at least possible that
Mrs. Vimpany's discreet interference might prevent his mischievous
correspondent from writing again. Lord Harry, waiting for more news,
would in this event wait in vain. He would not know where to go, or
what to do next--and, with such a nature as his, the end of his
patience and the end of his resolution were likely to come together.
Hugh handed his pocket-book to Iris. Of the poor chances in her favour,
the last was to his mind the least hopeless of the two.
"If you have discovered the name of your husband's correspondent," he
said, "write it down for me, and I will ask Mrs. Vimpany if she knows
him. I will make your excuses for not having written to her lately;
and, in any case, I answer for her being ready to help you."
As Iris thanked him and wrote the name, the clock on the chimneypiece
struck the hour.
She rose to say farewell. With a restless hand she half-lowered her
veil, and raised it again.
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