This note, in facsimile and in a palpably feigned hand, was delivered by the twopenny post--through its recent establishment in Cloak Lane near Dowgate Hill--to his lordship the Earl of Chesterfield, to my lady Countess his wife, and to Mr. George Hamilton, my lady’s kinsman. Each, in its private turn, pooh-pooh’d over it, each concluded that it was without question the work of Mrs. Davis, and therefore not worth consideration in any shape, and each decided, after long and irritable reflection, that it would lose nothing by going to verify the falsehood or accuracy of the report. And to each, in conclusion, succeeded the same inspiration (was it possible that perspicacious Mrs. Moll had clearly foreseen that contingency?), which was to adorn itself with the fateful badge, with a view to surprising such secrets as might reveal themselves to that verdant enigma. His lordship considered: “This may be nothing but the hussy’s retaliation on me for my rejection of her advances. And yet--curse it!--how can she afford to be so definite in her facts without some ground to go upon? ’Tis my lady that’s meant--that’s sure. There must be something in some way in it; and, if so, how to surprise and expose them? Ah! by God, I know.” My lady thought: “Is she really by chance telling the truth? And is this her way of revenging herself on me for my reflections on her character? Yet, if it is all an imposition? A barren vengeance that would be, defeating its own object. No, there must be something at the bottom of it, some mischief, some wickedness. ’Tis my lord that’s meant, without question, and in that case I have a right, a duty, to perform in being present. But how to penetrate such perfidy, supposing it to exist? O, I know what I will do! If only I can be there first, and lead him to betray himself!” Mr. Hamilton reflected: “What is this, my Mollinda?--for Mollinda’s work you are. Kit, and an assignation--with whom? Is it man or woman, you little devil? And so is the enigma to be resolved at last? I don’t believe a word of it. It is some pretty trick of yours to requite me for my late unkindness to you. Well, I’ll defeat it. Find me, with a green scarf to my hat, at the rendezvous, and kiss me for Kit whoever you may be. Who would have thought of that, now, George, but your own ingenious self?” But, in spite of their pretended confidence, they were all three properly puzzled and nervous, bless you. And one after the other, in an inconsequent sort of way, they put themselves into positions where they might hope to run across Mrs. Davis by accident, and question her casually as to her plans for the evening. But, exasperatingly enough, Moll was never once in evidence the whole day long, and no one knew what had become of her. She had vanished from all human ken like the “baseless fabric of a vision.” CHAPTER XVIII