"It's stronger than yours."
"I don't care," said Fleda, moving to the door. Mrs. Gereth, having paid
for the second missive, rejoined her, and they drove together to Owen's
club, where the elder lady alone got out. Fleda, from the hansom,
watched through the glass doors her brief conversation with the
hall-porter and then met in silence her return with the news that he had
not seen Owen for a fortnight and was keeping his letters till called
for. These had been the last orders; there were a dozen letters lying
there. He had no more information to give, but they would see what they
could find at Colonel Gereth's. To any connection with this inquiry,
however, Fleda now roused herself to object, and her friend had indeed
to recognize that on second thoughts it couldn't be quite to the taste
of either of them to advertise in the remoter reaches of the family that
they had forfeited the confidence of the master of Poynton. The letters
lying at the club proved effectively that he was not in London, and this
was the question that immediately concerned them. Nothing could concern
them further till the answers to their telegrams should have had time to
arrive. Mrs. Gereth had got back into the cab, and, still at the door of
the club, they sat staring at their need of patience. Fleda's eyes
rested, in the great hard street, on passing figures that struck her as
puppets pulled by strings. After a little the driver challenged them
through the hole in the top. "Anywhere in particular, ladies?"