But a judiciously-administered half-sovereign had a very soothing effect upon the mind and manners of the doorkeeper. There are so few things in a small way which cannot be done with half-a-sovereign. The man laid down his knife and fork, and applied himself to serious reflection, while his wife and family suspended their operations to stare admiringly at the fashionably-dressed intruder. “Let me see,” said the doorkeeper, scraping his stubbly chin as he mused, “there’s such a many of ’em, that I may sit here trying to remember where this here Miss Turner lives till doomsday, and not be no wiser. I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you, sir; I’ve got the addresses of every member of the company in my book over the way. I’ll slip over and get Miss Turner’s direction, while you wait here if you like.” “Over the way” was Drury Lane Theatre. The doorkeeper took some ponderous keys from a nail over the mantel-piece, and put on his hat. Francis Tredethlyn went with him. “Turner,” said the man; “Turner? A pale-faced young woman, ain’t she? looks as if she’d gone through no end of trouble. She’s only an extra, took on for this here great piece that’s just done with.” “An extra?” inquired Francis. “Yes; a sort of supernume’ry; not a reg’lar ballet-girl,--can’t dance, or anything of that sort, only fit to go on in crowds, and so on. I remember her, a very quiet, civil-spoken young person.” The address was soon found; it was at a house in Brydges Street. Francis left the doorkeeper with his heart beating tumultuously; his face pale with emotion that was half joy, half pain--joy at finding her at last, when hope had almost died out into forgetfulness--pain at finding her thus. Ah, yes! it was very painful to remember the innocent rosy face peeping out of a dimity bonnet, and to know that sorrow had set its undefaceable hand upon that rustic beauty, and that the face he remembered had no more a place upon this earth. “Miss Turner and Miss Willoughby live together over an eating-house in Brydges Street,” the doorkeeper had told Francis, with the further information that he was to pull the top bell twice. Mr. Tredethlyn found the eating-house, which was ostensibly closed; but the door of the shop was ajar, and the atmosphere about and around it seemed greasy with the steam of suet-pudding and boiled meat. The bell which Francis rang was answered by a careworn-looking woman of doubtful age, who had an air of faded gentility, a flimsy smartness of apparel, which was more plainly demonstrative of poverty than the shabbiest garments that ever hung together loosely upon the figure of a slattern. “Miss Turner lives here, I believe?” Francis said eagerly; “I wish to see her, if you please.” “Miss Turner _did_ live here,” the woman answered, “but she has left.” “Left? Why I saw her at the theatre only the night before last, and the doorkeeper has just directed me here.” “Miss Turner’s engagement expired last night, sir, and she left London this morning.”