Leaving word that he could not dine with Major Moncrief, Wilton left the house in a state of irritability and depression, and bent his steps to Claridge's; early as it was, he might at least make inquiries there. A yawning porter, who was sweeping the hall, called a waiter, who informed him that "Sir Peter and Lady Fergusson, the Misses Saville and suite," had started for Paris the day before. "And suite!" echoed Wilton; "I suppose that includes the governess?" "Yes, sir; there was a lady as went with the youngest lady in one of the hotel broughams; she was the governess." "Was she a tall, thin lady, with spectacles?" "Just so, sir." "No other lady with them?" "No, sir--none." Nothing more to be learned there! He was quite afloat. No clue to the girl who he had hoped would be, two days hence, his affianced bride, beyond the vague address, "Mrs. Kershaw, Gothic Villa, Kensington." He made his way slowly into Piccadilly and hailed a hansom. Kensington must be the scene of his research, and the sooner he plunged into it the better. How to begin occupied his thoughts as he bowled along. Shops, police, and postmen, seemed the most likely sources of information; failing these, he must manage to communicate with Miss Walker, who would certainly know Ella's whereabouts. However, he had great faith in himself; it was not the first time he had to hunt up a faint track, though the difficulties were of a far different character. "Here we are! Where to now, sir?" cried Cabby, through the hole at the top. "Oh! a--the nearest butcher's," said Wilton. "Bread and meat and tea," he reflected, "the humblest landlady must require;" and, proud of his own reasoning powers, he dismissed the cab, never remembering--probably not knowing--the ready-money system, which, paying the amount and carrying off the article, "leaves not a wrack behind." The important and substantial butcher, struck by the lordly bearing of his interrogator, condescended to repeat the words "Gothic Villa" in several keys, as though the reiteration would evoke knowledge, but ended with, "Can't say I know any such place, sir.--Here, Smith"--to a blue-gowned assistant, with rolled-up sleeves, who was adding "one leg more" to an artistically arranged fringe of legs of mutton which adorned the cornice--"do you know anything of 'Mrs. Kershaw, Gothic Villa?'" "Kershaw!" replied the man, pausing--"I seems as if I do, and yet I don't." At this maddening reply, Wilton felt disposed to collar him and rouse his memory by a sound shaking. "The person I want lets lodgings; and is, I think, elderly." "No, I don't," repeated the butcher's assistant. "I know Gothic 'all." "Ay," struck in the master, "and Gothic 'Ouse and Gothic Lodge, but no willar. I know the place well, sir, and I don't think there is a Gothic Willer in it. P'r'aps it's lodge, not willer, you are looking for?" "Then who lives at these other Gothics?"