The word "fog" solved the mystery; and again her thoughts were with Villiers. What a horrible place for him to live in! And he had been enduring all this wretchedness, while she was breathing the pure atmosphere of the country. Again they proceeded through the "murky air," and through an infinitude of mischances;--the noise--the hubbub--the crowd, as she could distinguish it, as if veiled by dirty gauze, by the lights in the shops--all agitated and vexed her. Through Fleet Street and the Strand they went; and it seemed as if their progress would never come to an end. The whole previous journey from Longfield was short in comparison to this tedious procession: twenty times she longed to get out and walk. At last they got free, and with a quicker pace drove up to the door of the Union Club, in Charing Cross. The post-boy called one of the waiters to the carriage door; and Ethel asked--"Is Mr. Villiers here?" "Mr. Villiers, ma'am, has left town." Ethel was aghast. She had watched assiduously along the road; yet she had felt certain that if he had meant to come, she would have seen him on Sunday; and till this moment, she had not entertained a real doubt but that she should find him. She asked, falteringly, "When did he go?" "Last week, ma'am: last Thursday, I think it was." Ethel breathed again: the man's information must be false. She was too inexperienced to be aware that servants and common people have a singular tact in selecting the most unpleasant intelligence, and being very alert in communicating it. "Do you know," she inquired, "where Mr. Villiers lodges?" "Can't say, indeed, ma'am; but the porter knows;--here, Saunders!" No Saunders answered. "The porter is not in the way; but if you can wait, ma'am, he'll be back presently."