He had not been lucky in his journey from Worcestershire the previous day. The train was detained so on the line, through some heavy waggons having come to grief, that he did not reach London till late at night; too late to go down to his lodgings near the docks; so he slept at an hotel. This morning he had reported himself at the broker's office; and Mr. Freeman, after blowing him up for his delay, ordered him on board at once: since they began to load, two days ago now, a clerk from the office had been down on the ship, making up the cargo-books in Pym's place. "I'll be hanged if I don't believe they must all be dead!" cried Pym, gazing at the house. "Why does not somebody show himself? I can't post the letter--for I know my letters to her are being suppressed. And I dare not leave it at the door myself, lest that cantankerous Ozias should answer me, and hand it to old Dace, instead of to Vera." Luck at last! The door opened, and a maid-servant came out with a jug, her bonnet thrown on perpendicularly. Mr. Pym kept her in view, and caught her up as she was nearing a public-house. "You come from Mrs. Ball's, Woburn Place?" said he. "Yes, sir," answered the girl, doubtfully, rather taken aback at the summary address, but capitulating to the gold-lace band. "I want you to give this letter privately to Miss Verena Fontaine. When she is quite alone, you understand. And here's half-a-crown, my pretty lass, for your trouble." The girl touched neither letter nor money. She surreptitiously put her bonnet straight, in her gratified vanity. "But I can't give it, sir," she said. "Though I'm sure I'd be happy to oblige you if I could. The Miss Fontaines and their papa is not with us now; they've gone away." "What?" cried Pym, setting his teeth angrily, an expression crossing his face that marred all its good looks. "When did they leave? Where are they gone to?" "They left yesterday, sir, and they didn't say where. That black servant of theirs and our cook couldn't agree; there was squabbles perpetual. None of us liked him; it don't seem Christian-like to have a black man sitting down to table with you. Mrs. Ball, our missis, she took our part; and the young ladies and their papa they naturally took _his_ part: and so, they left." "Can I see Mrs. Ball?" asked Pym, after mentally anathematizing servants in general, black and white. "Is she at home?" "Yes, sir, and she'll see you, I'm sure. She is vexed at their having left." He dropped the half-crown into the girl's hand, returned the note to his pocket, and went to the house. Mrs. Ball, a talkative, good-humoured woman in a rusty black silk gown, with red cheeks and quick brown eyes, opened the door to him herself. She invited him in. She would have given him Sir Dace Fontaine's address with all the pleasure in life, if she had it, she said. Sir Dace did not leave it with her. He simply bade her take in any letters that might come, and he would send for them.