"He was always a silly ass about women," rejoined Langholm's critic,
summing up the man. "So it's Mrs. Minchin now!"
The name acted like magic upon young Severino. His attention had
wandered. In an instant it was more eager than before.
"If you don't know where he lives in the country," he burst out, "where
is he staying in town?"
"We don't know that either."
"Then I mean to find out!"
And the pale musician rushed from the room, in pursuit of the man who
had been all day pursuing him.
CHAPTER XXII
THE DARKEST HOUR
The amateur detective walked slowly up to Piccadilly, and climbed on top
of a Chelsea omnibus, a dejected figure even to the casual eye. He was
more than disappointed at the upshot of his wild speculations, and in
himself for the false start that he had made. His feeling was one of
positive shame. It was so easy now to see the glaring improbability of
the conclusion to which he had jumped in his haste, at the first
promptings of a too facile fancy. And what an obvious idea it had been
at last! As if his were the only brain to which it could have occurred!
Langholm could have laughed at his late theory if it had only entailed
the loss of one day, but it had also cost him that self-confidence which
was the more valuable in his case through not being a common
characteristic of the man.
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