"Ask his address of your mistress," cried Mattie, becoming excited as the truth seemed to loom before her with all its horror; "I must see him!" The servant-maid's eyes became rounder, and she gasped forth-- "I'll--I'll wake missus." "Ask her to oblige me with Mr. Darcy's address--and please make haste." The servant withdrew, leaving Mattie standing in the draughty side passage, dark and dense as the fate of her whom she loved appeared to be from that day. She could hear the sweep bustling and bundling about the kitchen noisily; it seemed an age before the servant's feet came clumpeting down the stairs again. "It's number fourteen, St. Olave's Terrace, Old Kent Road." "Thank you." Mattie turned away, and ran down the fore court at a rapid pace. "Well--I _never_!" ejaculated the amazed domestic. "What's Mr. Darcy gone and done, I wonder!" Mattie darted backward on her homeward route; her plans of action were at sea now; she only wished to know the worst, and feel the strength to face it for others' sakes, not for her own. There were an old man and an old woman to comfort in their latter days, to become a daughter to in the place of her who had been spirited away--give her strength to solace them in the deep misery upon its way. People were stirring in the streets although the day was dark, and the sky above still full of stars. Mattie made many inquiries, and at last found St. Olave's Terrace, a row of large, gloomy houses, of red brick. At No. 14 Mattie knocked long and vigorously, until a window was opened in the first floor, and a boy's head protruded--the unkempt head of a page. "What's the row down there?" he shouted. "Mr. Darcy--is he at home?" "He ain't at home--he didn't come back last night." "Are you sure?--are you quite sure?" "I should think I was," replied young Impudence. "Who shall I say called--Walker?" "No matter--no matter." Mattie turned and hurried away again. Close upon six o'clock, and an empty cab before a public-house door. Mattie ran into the public-house, and found the cabman drinking neat gin at the bar, and bewailing the hardness of the times to the barman, who was yawning fearfully. "Is your cab engaged?" "Where do you want to go, Miss?" asked the cabman. "If it's Greenwich way, I've got a party to take up in five minutes time!" "Suffolk Street, Borough. I--I don't mind what I pay to get there quickly." "Jump in, Miss--I'll drive you there in no time." Mattie entered the cab, the cabman mounted the box, and away they went down the Old Kent Road. The cabman had been up all night, calling at many night-houses in his route, and always taking gin with despatch and gusto. He was reckless with his whip, unmerciful to his horse, and disregardful of the cab, which he had out on hire. He was just intoxicated enough to be confidential, mysterious, and sympathizing. He lowered the glass window at his back, and looked through at Mattie.