"Where's he gone?" asked the Squire. "I don't know, I'm sure. Dr. Dale does not know; for I have once or twice heard him wonder what had become of Pitt. Pitt grew rather irregular in his habits, I fancy, and the doctor discharged him." "How long ago?" "About a year, I think. I have not the least idea where Pitt is now: would be happy to tell you if I knew." So, there we were again--baffled. The Squire went back in the cab to the Castle and Falcon, rubbing his face furiously, and giving things in general a few hard words. Up to Islington again, and searching up and down the streets and roads. A bright thought took the pater. He got a policeman to show him to the district sorting-house, went in, and inquired whether such a place as Gibraltar Terrace existed, or whether it did not. Yes. There was one. But it was not in Islington; only on the borders of it. Away we went, after getting the right direction, and found it. A terrace of poor houses, in a quiet side-street. In nearly every other window hung a card with "Lodgings" on it, or "Apartments." Children played in the road: two men with a truck were crying mackerel. "I say, Johnny, these houses all look alike. What is the number we want?" "Stephen Radcliffe did not give any number." "Bless my heart! We shall have to knock at every one of them." And so he did. Every individual door he knocked at, one after the other, asking if Mrs. Mapping lived there. At the very last house of all we found her. A girl, whose clothes were dilapidated enough to have come down from Noah's Ark, got up from her knees, on which she was cleaning the door-flag, and told us to go into the parlour while she called Mrs. Mapping. It was a tidy threadbare room, not much bigger than a closet, with "Lodgings" wafered to the middle pane of the window. Mrs. Mapping came in: a middle-aged, washed-out lady, with pink cheeks, who looked as if she didn't have enough to eat. She thought we had come after the lodgings, and stood curtsying, and rubbing her hands down her black-silk apron--which was in slits. Apparently a "genteel" person who had seen better days. The Squire opened the ball, and her face took a puzzled look as she listened. "Radcliffe?--Radcliffe?" No, she did not recollect any lodger of the name. But then, nine times out of ten, she did not know the names of her lodgers. She didn't want to know them. Why should she? If the gentlemen's names came out incidental, well and good; if not, she never presumed to inquire after them. She had not been obliged to let lodgings always. "But this gentleman died here--_died_, ma'am," interrupted the Squire, pretty nearly beside himself with impatience. "It's about twelve months ago." "Oh, that gentleman," she said. "Yes, he did die here, poor young man. The doctor--yes, his name was Pitt, sir--he couldn't save him. Drink, that was the cause, I'm afeard."