Before discovering that the VON BÖOTZ had been removed I had assumed (as it is my wont after returning from Pump-Handle Court) my slippers. Without waiting to amend my costume, without lingering to recover my umbrella (now reclining in its stand, seemingly exchanging confidences with my walking-stick), I started for Panorama Place, Nine Sisters Road, Rixton Rise. The lady who has honoured me by accepting my name had furnished me with this address--the abode of the unconsciously-fugitive WILKINS. Without a moment's hesitation I hailed and entered a four-wheeler. "Panorama Place, Nine Sisters Road, Rixton Rise," I said in the tone of the late Duke of WELLINGTON ordering the advance of the Guards at Waterloo. The cabman shook his head, then seemingly pondered, then looked at me. "Is it near the 'Green Compasses'?" he asked, after a pause of intense thought. I have always considered Mr. WILKINS a model of sobriety. But then I have only known him in the hours devoted to duty, to the sweeping of kitchen chimneys, to the re-building of wash-houses, to the re-papering of studies, to the removal of grand pianos from basement to attic, and other little domestic offices. In his moments of relaxation he may be a genial _viveur_, and in this character was more likely than not to live in close proximity to the no doubt hospitable tavern to which the driver had referred. So I answered my Jehu that I thought it exceedingly possible that Mr. WILKINS did dwell near the "Green Compasses." We started, and after a drive for which I was charged (and in my opinion rightly charged) five-and-sixpence, arrived safely at Panorama Place, Nine Sisters Road, Rixton Rise. The shadow of anxiety that had followed me through what I may be permitted to term my hackney peregrinations had passed away. I had feared that when I had successfully tracked out Mr. WILKINS to his suburban nest I should find him flown. But no, the eagle had not lost the child, the handy man was still the possessor of my pictorial treasure. At least so I presumed, as he smiled when I put to him the all-important question, "Where is my VON BÖOTZ?" "This is what I have done with him, Sir," said my house-renovator, leading me gently into what I take must have been his study. The apartment was furnished with two spades, a saw, two hammers, a pot of glue, a model of a fire-engine, a couple of stools, and a sideboard. "Look at this little lot, Sir," cried Mr. WILKINS, whipping off a cloth, and exposing to view two earthenware flower-vases, and a small model (in chalk) of an easily illuminated (there was a receptacle in the interior large enough to contain a taper) cathedral. "What are these?" I demanded, in a voice more or less suggestive of thunder.