As I paused at the door on which were painted the words, 'S.
Brooks, Stenography, Typewriting, Translation', I heard the rapid
click-click of a machine inside. Knocking at the door the writing
ceased, and I was bidden to enter. The room was but meagrely
furnished, and showed scant signs of prosperity. On a small
side-table, clean, but uncovered, the breakfast dishes, washed, but
not yet put away, stood, and the kettle on the hob by the dying fire
led me to infer that the typewriting woman was her own cook. I
suspected that the awkward-looking sofa which partly occupied one side
of the room, concealed a bed. By the lone front window stood the
typewriting machine on a small stand, and in front of it sat the woman
who had visited me the morning before. She was now gazing at me,
probably hoping I was a customer, for there was no recognition in her
eyes.
'Good-morning, Lady Rantremly,' was my greeting, which caused her to
spring immediately to her feet, with a little exclamation of surprise.
'Oh,' she said at last, 'you are Monsieur Valmont. Excuse me that I am
so stupid. Will you take a chair?'
'Thank you, madam. It is I who should ask to be excused for so
unceremonious a morning call. I have come to ask you a question.
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