At last he bethought himself of the post office, and pulling his hat down over his brows, and his coat-collar up over his chin, he betook himself there to see if he could find any clue. Curtis? Oh, yes, there were the Curtises of Oakley, Sir John and her ladyship, the best known people in the county; and the Reverend Hubert at the Rectory, and old Miss Curtis at Oakley Dene. In the town? Well, yes, there was a Mrs. Curtis in Acorn Terrace, No. 12; hadn’t been there long; did not get very many letters. “Yes, probably that is the lady,” said Arthur, his heart beating loudly. He went off without a moment’s hesitation to the little new brick terrace. It seemed to him that there could now be no doubt on the subject. He knew that Nancy would not take a false name. How unconscious she must be who was coming to her through the night--for it was quite dark now, the lamps lighted, the parlour windows shining. There was bright firelight in the window of No. 12, Acorn Terrace, and the sound of a piano, and some one singing. Could it be _her_? He knocked, his heart sounding louder than any knocker, and was admitted with innocent confidence. Yes, Mrs. Curtis was at home; and the maid had prepared the lamp, which she carried in before him, announcing simply, “A gentleman, please, Ma’am.” The inhabitants made Arthur out before he made them out, and a mild old lady in a widow’s cap rose from a chair by the fire. What could Arthur do but stammer forth apologies, his very voice choked with disappointment. “I beg a thousand pardons, it is a mistake,” he said, rushing out again, leaving the ladies in the parlour half angry, half interested. What a blank of helplessness he felt closing round him as he got outside again, hot with shame, and quivering with the shock of his disappointment. This was no use it was evident, and where could he go to inquire further? Not to the police, as if his innocent wife had been a culprit. He could not subject Nancy to that indignity. He walked about the streets for an hour or two longer, wondering what he could do. A directory? Her name would not be in it. The post-office had failed him; and he could not go calling her name through the streets as the Eastern princess did. Nancy! Nancy! He might make it echo to all the four winds, but what would that do for him? It occurred to him at last to try the hotels, as he remembered the date of Matilda’s letter; but no ladies bearing the names of Mrs. Curtis and Miss Bates had been heard of anywhere. At one of the hotels (probably at all) they recognised him, and as he was by this time prostrate with exhaustion and disappointment, he decided to remain all night, telegraphing to his servant to meet him there next day. He must go home now that he was so near; not to-night, but to-morrow, when he was more fit to meet strangers. Strangers! his own father and mother, his familiar friends, the servants who had nursed him from his childhood and