Up in Highgate an hour later you might have seen a hansom driving about, pausing here and there to ask of policemen, pedestrians, and others for "The Laurels." "There's a' many Laurels," said the milkman, who was also the first director, and so after awhile Mr Bevan found to his cost. But at last they found, with the aid of a local directory, the right one, a spacious house built of red brick seen through an avenue of lime trees all abuzz with bees. There was no sign of life in the little gate lodge, and the entrance gate was pushed back; the orderly eye of Charles Bevan noticed that it was half off its hinges; also, that the weeds in the avenue were rampant. A laburnum had pushed its way through the limes, and a peony, as large almost as a cabbage, had laid its head on the avenue-way, presenting a walk-over-me-_I_-don't-care appearance, quite in accordance with the general aspect of things. The hansom drew up at the door and the traveller from Southampton Row flung away his cigar end, alighted, and ran up the three steps leading to the porch. He rang the bell, and then stood wondering at the luxuriance of the wisteria that overspread the porch, and contemplating the hind hocks of the cab-horse which had been fired. What he was about to do or say when he found himself in the presence of his enemy was not very clear to the mind of Mr Bevan. What did occur to him was that George Lambert would have the advantage over him in the interview, seeing that he would be in his own house--on his own dunghill, so to speak. He might have got into the hansom and returned to town, but that would have been an admission to himself that he had committed a fault, and to admit themselves in fault, even to themselves, was never a way with the Bevans. So he rang and waited, and rang again. Presently shuffling footsteps sounded from behind the door which opened some two inches, disclosing a pale, blue eye, part of a nose, and an uncertain coloured fringe. "What do you want?" cried a voice through the crack. "Does Mr George Lambert live here?" "He does, but he's from home." "Dear me," murmured Charles, whose curiosity was now greatly aroused by the neglected aspect of the place and the mysterious personage hidden by the door. He felt a great desire to penetrate further into the affairs of his enemy and see what was to be seen. "Is Miss Lambert in?" "Yus." "Then give her my card, please. I would like to speak to her." The person behind the door undid the chain, satisfied evidently by Bevan's voice and appearance that he was not a dun or a robber. The door opened disclosing a servant maid, very young and very dirty. This ash-cat took the piece of pasteboard, and made a pretence of reading it, invited Charles to enter, and then closing the door, and barring it this time as if to keep him in, should he try to escape, led the way across a rather empty hall to a library.