She determined to go without delay to the house in Russell Square, in the hope--at best but a faint hope--of finding the old lady in black satin still among the living, and not represented by an entry in the ledger of some West-end undertaking firm, or by a number in the dismal catalogue of a suburban cemetery. CHAPTER XLIII. AN OLD LADY’S DIARY. On the following afternoon Laura drove straight from the House of Detention to Russell Square. Her interview with her husband had been full of comfort. Mr. Leopold had been with his client, and Mr. Leopold was in excellent spirits. He had no doubt as to the issue of his case, even without Desrolles; and the detectives had very little doubt of finding Desrolles. ‘A man of that age and of those habits doesn’t go far,’ said the lawyer, speaking of this human entity with as much assurance as if he were stating a mathematical truth. Laura got out of her cab before one of the dullest-looking houses in the big, handsome old square--a house brightened by no modern embellishment in the way of Venetian blind or encaustic flower-box, but kept with a scrupulous care. Not a speck upon the window panes, not a spot upon the snow-white steps, the varnish of the door as fresh as if it had been laid on yesterday. The door was opened by an old man-servant in plain clothes. Laura grew hopeful at the sight of him. He looked like a man who had lived fifty years in one service--the kind of man who begins as a knife-boy, and either stultifies a spotless career by going to America with the plate, or ends as a pious annuitant, in the odour of sanctity. ‘Does Mrs. Malcolm still live here?’ asked Laura. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘Is she at home?’ ‘I will inquire, ma’am, if you will be kind enough to give me your card,’ replied the man, as much as to say that his mistress was a lady whose leisure was not to be irreverently disturbed. She was to be at home or not at home, as it pleased her sovereign will, and according to the quality and claims of her visitor. Laura wrote upon one of her cards, ‘Stephen Malcolm’s daughter, Laura,’ while the ancient butler produced a solid old George the Second salver whereon to convey the card with due reverence to his mistress. The address upon the card looked respectable, and so did Laura, and upon the strength of these appearances the butler ventured to show the stranger into the dining-room, where the furniture was of the good old brobdingnagian stamp, and there was nothing portable except the fire-irons. Here Laura waited in a charnel-house atmosphere, while Mrs. Malcolm called up the dim shadows of the past, and finally came to the determination that she would hold parley with this young person who claimed to be of her kindred.