While the change was being made, he obtained from the lady the address in Soho Square where she was staying. The new horses were fresh; the carriage rattled through Gunnersbury, past the turnpike at Hammersmith and through Kensington, and soon after nine o’clock Desmond had the satisfaction of pulling up at the door of Sheriff Soames’ mansion in Soho Square. The door was already open, the rattle of wheels having brought lacqueys with lighted torches to welcome the belated travellers. Torches flamed in the cressets on both sides of the entrance. The hall was filled with servants and members of the household, and in the bustle that ensued when the ladies in their brocades and hoops had entered the house, Desmond saw an opportunity of slipping away. He felt that it was perhaps a little ungracious to go without a word with the ladies; but he was tired; he was unaccustomed to town society; and the service he had been able to render seemed to him so slight that he was modestly eager to efface himself. Leaving the carriage in the hands of one of the lacqueys, with a few words of explanation, he hastened on towards Holborn and the city. CHAPTER THE SEVENTH *In which Colonel Clive suffers a defeat hitherto unrecorded; and our hero finds food for reflection.* It was four o’clock, and Tuesday afternoon--the day before the _Good Intent_ was to sail from the Pool. Desmond was kicking his heels in his inn, longing for the morrow. Even now he had not seen the vessel on which he was to set forth in quest of his fortune. She lay in the Pool, but Diggle had found innumerable reasons why Desmond should not visit her until he embarked for good and all. She was loading her cargo; he would be in the way. Captain Barker was in a bad temper; better not see him in his tantrums. The pressgangs were active; they thought nothing of boarding a vessel and seizing on any active young fellow who looked a likely subject for His Majesty’s navy. Such were the reasons alleged. And so Desmond had to swallow his impatience and fill in his time as best he might; reading the newspapers, going to see Mr. Garrick and Mistress Kitty Clive at Drury Lane, spending an odd evening at Ranelagh Gardens. On this Tuesday afternoon he had nothing to do. Diggle was out; Desmond had read the newspapers and glanced at the last number of the World; he had written to his mother--the third letter since his arrival in London; he could not settle to anything. He resolved to go for a walk, as far as St. Paul’s, perhaps, and take a last look at the busy streets he was not likely to see again for many a day.