"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."

"Why, what is it you think?" Mrs. Hastings besought him. "Do you
think this person, whoever it is, can do something? And whatever can
he do? Oh dear," she ended, "I do want to act the way poor dear Mr.
Hastings would have acted. Only I know that he would have gone
straight to Bitley, or wherever she is, and held a revolver at that
mulatto creature's head, and _commanded_ her to talk English. Mr.
Hastings was a very determined character. If you could have seen the
poor dear man's chin! But of course I can't do that, can I? And
that's what I say to Olivia. 'Olivia, one doesn't _need_ a man's
judgment if one will only use judgment oneself.' What is it you
think, Mr. St. George?"

Before St. George could reply there entered the room, behind a low
announcement of his name, a man of sixty-odd years, nervous,
slightly stooped, his smooth pale face unlighted by little deep-set
eyes.

"Ah, Mr. Frothingham!" said Mrs. Hastings in evident relief, "you
are just in time. Mr. St. John was just telling me horrible things
about this frightful mulatto creature. This is Mr. St. John. Mr.
Frothingham is my lawyer and my brother Otho's lawyer. And so I
telephoned him to come in and hear all about this. And now do go on,
Mr. St. John, about this hideous woman. What is it you think?"