Crumpled in one of the pockets of his overcoat, Francis had found the programme of the performances at Drury Lane, and in the long list of names crowded together at the bottom of the programme, he discovered half hidden amongst Percies and Vavasours, Vane Tempests and Leveson Gowers, and such appellations as the _corps de ballet_ modestly chooses for its own--the vulgar name of Turner. He concluded, therefore, that his cousin had called herself Turner at the Drury Lane Theatre, as well as at Coltonslough, and he did not anticipate much difficulty in finding her. The search after any information upon theatrical matters might have seemed rather a hopeless thing on a Sunday, but Francis Tredethlyn’s energy was not to be damped by small difficulties. “I have wasted too many hours already,” he thought; “where my poor lost girl is concerned, every moment of delay seems a new wrong.” He took a hansom and drove straight to the theatre; but Drury Lane on a Sunday seems an utterly hopeless and impracticable place. The stage-door was closed. The box-office might have been the tomb of the Pharaohs for any appearance of life within its portals. Happily Francis was not to be disheartened. He walked up and down the street until the clocks struck one, and a dense crowd began to pour out of a chapel in Crown Court, and disgorge itself into Little Russell Street. Then, when the doors of the public-houses were opened, he entered a tavern nearly opposite the stage-door, and made his inquiries. The barmaid at the tavern was able to tell him where the stage-doorkeeper lived, but she was not able to give him any information as to the habitations of the ladies of the _ballet_. “Most of them live out at Camberwell, or up Islington way; though how they manage it, poor things, walking backwards and forwards through all sorts of weather, is more than I can tell. They send over here when there’s a long rehearsal for their half pint of porter and their sandwich, and that’s about all the dinner they get on such days, I dare say.” Thus, discursively, the barmaid. Francis left her, and made his way to the adjacent court in which the doorkeeper was to be found in his private capacity. That gentleman was in the midst of a very greasy dinner and in the bosom of his family when Mr. Tredethlyn intruded on him, and was at first inclined to resent the interruption. “I don’t carry two hundred and forty-nine addresses in my blessed head,” he remarked, in an injured tone; “which our company at the beginning of this season was over two hundred and forty-nine; and I don’t care to be hunted upon Sundays when I’m eating of my dinner, for a pack of ballet-girls. I don’t get paid for _that_ when I take my salary. If any young swell wants to find out one of our ladies’ address, to leave ’em a bokay, or to take a ticket for their benefit or such-like, I should think they could find it out of a week-day, and not come chivying of a man over his Sunday wittles.”