Yet, ’tis quite true, too, that Sir Percy’s case was a bit out of the usual, inasmuch as the mystery of Lady Peggy’s present abiding place remained as deep to-day as ’twas a fortnight ago. “Well, Grigson,” asked his master, as his man appeared unsummoned, “what is it?” “Asking Your Honor’s pardon,” replies this one, “but I made bold during Your Honor’s absence from town to go down to Kennaston Castle.” “Well, well?” cries Sir Percy excitedly, “what news?” “With submission, Sir,” replies the man, sadly. “None.” “’Od’s blood! you fool!” exclaimed the master. “Why do you seek me with your ‘none’! Is Her Ladyship still from home?” Grigson bows. “And her mother still in York?” Grigson bows. “And the Earl still believing his daughter to be in that damned Kent with her godmother?” Grigson bows for the third time. “And that cursed Abigail still affirming that her mistress is up in London?” Grigson bows for the fourth time. “Asking your pardon, Sir Percy,” he adds, noting with a keen and generous sympathy, which not infrequently exists in the hearts of serving-men for their masters, the deepening pallor of the young gentleman’s countenance, and his most disheveled appearance. “Asking your pardon, Sir, but whiles I might be doing your wig, which is most uncommon tousled, I’d make bold to tell you, Sir, that Mistress Jane Chockey, Lady Peggy’s own woman, Sir, is in an awful way, Sir!” “My wig may go to the devil, you idiot!” cries Percy. “What’s the blabbing jade’s tantrums to me! Get out of my sight.” “With submission, Sir Percy, but Chockey does nothing at all but cry out her eyes from morning till night, and went on her knees a-beseechin’ me to find Her Ladyship, which all I could coax out of her by my best endeavors at wheedlin’ the seck, Sir, was that she last saw Her Ladyship standin’—” “Where! where?” gasps Sir Percy, seizing Mr. Grigson by the arm with a grip of steel. “Before the door of Lord Kennaston’s lodgin’s, Sir, in Lark Lane—a—” “Yes? yes? go on!” with glaring, gazing eyes fixed on his man’s ruddy visage. “A-talkin’, Sir, to some one a-sittin’ inside of a most elegant chair!” “Did she see the man’s face?” he asks tensely. “No, Sir Percy; but Her Ladyship bade Chockey go home and not tarry for her, and make such excuse to His Lordship as you have learned before. And, asking your pardon humbly, Sir, Mistress Chockey is of the opinion that her young Lady got into that chair and was carried off, a willin’ wictim, Sir, to the h’altar, and married to the contents of the chair, Sir, afore that wery noon.” “Damn Chockey and her opinions!” mutters Sir Percy, under his breath, picking up his hat from the table and rushing into the street, nigh to choking with his emotions and his despair. He turned the corner, almost knocking over a couple of link-boys in his path, tossed them some pennies for their tumble, and into Piccadilly.