It reached my ears among the earliest, And from Lord L. himself, whose long suppressed Emotion found its vent one afternoon On me, the only listener left in town. His thoughts now ran on "a religious craze Of his poor wife's," he said, "in these last days Indulged beyond all reason." The police Would listen to no talk of casualties, Still less of crime, since they had nothing found In evidence above or under ground, But held the case to be of simpler kind, Home left in a disordered state of mind Lord L. had noticed, now they talked of it, Temper less equable and flightier wit, "A craving for religious services And sacred music." Something was amiss, Or why were they in London in September? Griselda latterly, he could remember, Had raved of a conventual retreat In terms no Protestant would deem discreet, As the sole refuge in a world of sin For human frailty, griefs best anodyne. "The _Times_ was right. Rome threatened to absorb us: The convents must be searched by _habeas corpus_." And so I came to help him. I had guessed From his first word the vainness of his quest, And half was moved to serve him in a strait Where her fair fame I loved was in debate, Yet held my peace, nor hazarded a word Save of surprise at the strange case I heard, Till, fortune aiding, I should find the clue My heart desired to do what I would do. And not in vain. Night found me duly sped, Lord L.'s ambassador accredited, With fullest powers to find and fetch her home, If need should be, from the Pope's jaws in Rome. Gods! what a mission! First my round I went Through half the slums of Middlesex and Kent, Surrey and Essex--this to soothe Lord L., Though witless all, as my heart told too well; The hospitals no less and casual wards, Each house as idly as his House of Lords, And only at the week's end dared to stop At the one door I knew still housing hope, Young Manton's chambers. There, with reddened cheek I heard the answer given I came to seek: Manton was gone, his landlady half feared He too, in some mishap, and disappeared,-- Proof all too positive. His letters lay A fortnight deep untouched upon the tray. She could not forward them or risk a guess As to his last or likeliest address. He was in Scotland often at this season, "But not without his guns"--a cogent reason, And leaving, too, his valet here in town, Perplexed of what to do or leave undone. Abroad? Perhaps. If so, his friends might try As a best chance the Paris Embassy. He had been there last Spring, and might be now.