Lightfoot put on his considering-cap. "If you go to the refreshment-room of the Bell-and-Clapper Station and ask his address of the girls there," said he, "I dare say they can give it you. Bevere used to be uncommonly fond of frequenting their company, I believe." Running down to the train at once I took a ticket for the Bell-and-Clapper Station, and soon reached it. It was well named: the bell was clanging away with a loud and furious tongue, enough to drive a sick man mad. What a dreadful infliction for the houses near it! Behind the counter in the refreshment-room stood two damsels, exchanging amenities with a young man who sat smoking a cigar, his legs stretched out at ease. Before I had time to speak, the sound of an up-train was heard; he drank up the contents of a glass that stood at his elbow, and went swiftly out. It was a pretty looking place: with coloured decanters on its shelves and an array of sparkling glass. The young women wore neat black gowns, and might have looked neat enough altogether but for their monstrous heads of hair. That of one in particular was a sight to be seen, and must have been copied from some extravagant fashion plate. She was dark and handsome, with a high colour and a loud voice, evidently a strong-minded young woman, perfectly able to take care of herself. The other girl was fair, smaller and slighter, with a somewhat delicate face, and a quiet manner. "Can you give me the address of Mr. Roger Bevere?" I asked of this younger one. The girl flushed scarlet, and looked at her companion, who looked back again. It was a curious sort of look, as much--I thought--as to say, what are we to do? Then they both looked at me. But neither spoke. "I am told that Mr. Bevere often comes here, and that you can give me his address." "Well, sir--I don't think we can," said the younger one, and her speech was quite proper and modest. "We don't know it, do we, Miss Panken?" "Perhaps you'll first of all tell me who it was that said we could give it you," cried Miss Panken, in tones as strong-minded as herself, and as though she were by a very long way my superior in the world. "It was one of his fellow-students at the hospital." "Oh--well--I suppose we can give it you," she concluded. "Here, I'll write it down. Lend me your pencil, Mabel: mine has disappeared. There," handing me the paper, "if he is not there, we can't tell you where he is." "Roger Bevary, 22, New Crescent," was what she wrote. I thanked her and went out, encountering two or three young men who rushed in from another train and called individually for refreshment. New Crescent was soon found, but not Bevere. The elderly woman-servant who answered me said Mr. Bevere formerly lived with them, but left about eighteen months back. He had not left the neighbourhood, she thought, as she sometimes met him in it. She saw him only the past Saturday night when she was out on an errand. "What, this past Saturday!" I exclaimed. "Are you certain?"