Next morning Maggie wrote to Paul telling him that her aunt was dead, that the funeral would be in two days' time, and that she would stay in London until that was over.She had not very much time just then to think of the house and the dead woman in it, because on the breakfast-table there was this letter for her.
23 CROMWELL RD., KENSINGTON, March 12, 1912.
DEAR MRS.TRENCHARD, I hear that you have come to London to visit your aunt.I have been hoping for some time past to have an opportunity of seeing you.I am sure that you will have no wish at all to see me; at the same time Ido beg you to give me half an hour at the above address.Five o'clock to-morrow would be a good time.Please ask for Miss Warlock.
Believe me, Yours faithfully, AMY WARLOCK.
Maggie stared at the signature, then, with a thickly beating heart, decided that of course she would go.She was not afraid but--Martin's sister! What would come of it? The house was strangely silent; Aunt Elizabeth sniffed into her handkerchief a good deal;Mr.Magnus, his face strained with a look of intense fatigue, went out about some business.The blinds of the house wore down and all the rooms were bathed in a green twilight.
About quarter past four Maggie went down into the Strand and found a cab.She gave the address and off they went.Sitting in the corner of the cab she seemed to be an entirely passive spectator of events that were being played before her.She knew, remotely, that Aunt Anne's death had deeply affected her, that coming back to the old house had deeply affected her, and that this interview with Amy Warlock might simply fasten on her the fate that she had for many months now seen in front of her.She could not escape; and she did not want to escape.
They found the house, a very grimy looking one, in the interminable Cromwell Road.Maggie rang a jangling bell, and the door was ultimately opened by a woman with sleeves turned up at the elbows and a dirty apron.
"Is Miss Warlock at home?" The woman sniffed.
"I expect so," she said."Most times she is.What name?""Mrs.Trenchard," Maggie said.
She was admitted into a hall that smelt of food and seemed in the half-light to be full of umbrellas.The woman went upstairs, but soon returned to say that Miss Warlock would see the lady.Maggie found that in the sitting-room the gas was dimly burning.There was the usual lodging-house furniture, and on a faded red sofa near the fire old Mrs.Warlock was lying.Maggie could not see her very clearly in the half-light, but there was something about her immobility and the stiffness of her head (decorated as of old with its frilly white cap) that reminded one of a figure made out of wax.
Maggie turned to find Amy Warlock standing close to her.
"Mrs.Thurston--" Maggie began, hesitating.
"You may not know," said Amy Warlock, "that I have retained my maiden name.Sit down, won't you? It is good of you to have come."The voice was a little more genial than it had been in the old days.
Nevertheless this was still the old Amy Warlock, stiff, masculine, impenetrable.
"I hope your aunt is better," she said.
"My aunt is dead," answered Maggie.