"Oh, Mr. Reynolds, the great ironmonger, has the 'all; and the honorable Mrs. Croker lives at the lodge." "Well, neither of these names can possibly be converted into Kershaw. I am sorry I troubled you." "No trouble at all, sir." Patiently, though anxiously, Wilton went from butcher to baker, from baker to butterman, from butterman to milkshop, until he suddenly exclaimed at his own stupidity, as his eye was caught by a conspicuous brass plate bearing the inscription, "Mr. Mayers, Gas-Inspector." "By Jove!" cried Wilton, aloud, "that is the fellow to know every house in the parish. Why did I not think of a gas-inspector before?" He rang, and a smart young woman appeared at the door in a few moments. In his uncertainty whether he was speaking to the wife or the handmaid of Mayers, Wilton politely raised his hat, and asked if he could see the master of the house. "I am very sorry, sir, he is out, and will not be here till tea-time." "And when will that be?" asked the anxious querist, smiling blandly. "Oh, not till half-past five. Could I give any message?" replied the lady, much impressed by the grand air and chivalrous courtesy of her interlocutor. "I am afraid I must trouble Mr. Mayers myself. I shall not detain him beyond a moment or two, if he will be so good as to see me about half-past five." "Yes, sir; he will be in then and very happy to see you." "Perhaps you happen to know where Gothic Villa is in this neighborhood. I am looking for a Mrs. Kershaw, Gothic Villa." "Kershaw? Gothic Villa? No, indeed, I do not. I have very few acquaintances here; you see people are rather mixed in Kensington." "I will not keep you standing--at five-thirty, then," returned Wilton, raising his hat, and smiling as he said to himself, "Madame the gas-inspectress is exclusive. Such caricatures ought to cure the follies they travesty." He looked at his watch. Two hours and a half to spare. What should he do? Make any further search, or rely on the gas-inspector? Yes; he would be sure to know. So, after a moment's thought, he again called a hansom, and rattled back to the club; but Major Moncrief was not there. Hastily scribbling an invitation to breakfast next day, he went on to his hotel to snatch a mouthful of luncheon or dinner, or both, for he still hoped to spend the remainder of the evening exchanging vows, explanations--perhaps kisses--with Ella Rivers. He had by some unreasonable process of thought convinced himself that she could have taken refuge in no other haven than the somewhat unromantic dwelling of Mrs. Kershaw. As the half-hour struck, Wilton rang again at the gas-inspector's house. He was received by the same lady most graciously, and ushered into an oppressively smart front parlor, profusely decorated with anti-macassars, and mats, and table-covers.