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At the time of the beginning of my story I lodged at 11A University Street in a little upper room, very shabbily furnished and draughty, overlooking the back of Shoolbred's premises. I used this little room both to live in and sleep in, because I was anxious to eke out my means to the very last shillings-worth.
"Could you go to Geoffrey, and see him, and tell him all about me and and come back and tell me how he looks, and what he said and and so on?" "Certainly. What is his name, and where do I find him?" "I never told you. How stupid of me. His name is Geoffrey Raymond, and he lives with his uncle, Mr. Wilbur Raymond, at 11a, Belgrave Square." "I'll go to him tomorrow." "Thank you ever so much."
It contained only a few words: "Mr. Wilbur Raymond has returned to his residence at No. 11a Belgrave Square from a prolonged voyage in his yacht, the Siren." Maud did not know Mr. Wilbur Raymond, and yet that paragraph had sent the blood tingling through every vein in her body.
Only by a strong effort did I recall 11A, and even then it seemed to me that it was a thing some forgotten person had told me. I tried to steady my mind by recalling the incidents of the dinner, and for the life of me I could conjure up no picture of my host's face; I saw him only as a shadowy outline, as one might see oneself reflected in a window through which one was looking.
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