made by Fielding had not yet begun, everybody had too much work, and the poor Major had still some time to wait before an officer--tipstaff, as he was called--could accompany him, so that it was past noon when, off in the Bowstead carriage again, they went along the Strand, to a high-walled court belonging to one of the old houses of the nobility, most of which had perished in the fire of London. There was a double-doored gateway, and after much thundering in vain, at which the tipstaff, a red-nosed old soldier, waxed very irate, the old woman came out in curtseying, crying, frightened humility, declaring that they would find no one there--they might look if they would. So they drove over the paved road, crossing the pitched pebbles, the door was unbarred, but no Aurelia sprang into her father’s arms. Only a little terrier came barking out into the dismal paved hall. Into every room they looked, the old woman asseverating denials that it was of no use, they might see for themselves, that no one had been there for years past. Full of emptiness, indeed, with faded grimy family portraits on the walls, moth-eaten carpets and cushions, high-backed chairs with worm-holes; and yet, somehow, there was one room that did look as if it had recently been sat in. Two little stools were drawn up close to a chair; the terrier poked and smelt about uneasily as though in search of some one, and dragged out from under a couch a child’s ball which he began to worry. On the carpet, too, were some fragments of bright fresh embroidery silk, which the practiced eye of the constable noticed. “This here was not left ten or a dozen years ago,” said he; and, extracting the ball from the fangs of the dog, “No, and this ball ain’t ten year old, neither. Come, Mother What’s’-name, it’s no good deceiving an officer of the law; whose is this here ball?” “It’s the little misses. They’ve a bin here with their maid, but their nurse have been and fetched ‘em away this morning, and a good riddance too.” “Who was the maid?--on your oath!” “One Deborah Davis, a deaf woman, and pretty nigh a dumb one. She be gone too.” Nor could the old woman tell where she was to be found. “My Lady’s woman sent her in,” she said, “and she was glad enough to be rid of her.” “Come, now, my good woman, speak out, and it will be better for you,” said the Major. “I know my daughter was here yesterday.” “And what do I know of where she be gone? She went off in a sedan-chair this morning before seven o’clock, and if you was to put me to the rack I couldn’t say no more.” As to which way or with whom she had gone, the old woman was, apparently, really ignorant. The poor Major had to return home baffled and despairing, still taking the tipstaff with him, in case, on consultation with Mr. Belamour, it should be deemed expedient to storm Hanover Square itself, and examine Lady Belamour and her servants upon oath.