“That story I reject entirely—now I see the other letter,” cries Mr. Rich. “Indeed I could but half believe it before. I never saw a sign or token of the girl giving him a look more than needful on the stage. He moved his lodging two days ago and I know not the new one.” “Who should know?” asked the Duke. “Scawen—old Scawen. She knows all the players’ business, even to which has herrings for breakfast and which beef and ale. Let us to Scawen, my Lord Duke. I’m with you heart and soul. I would not lose my Polly for anything in earth or heaven.” “I thank you, Sir,” the Duke said briefly. He stood while Mr. Rich was cloaked by his lacquey and another chair spoke for, and then the two were off, swinging down the street, each secluded from further conversation. ’Twas not far from the elegance of Bloomsbury to the somewhat sordid respectability of Mrs. Scawen’s house, and at the window,—it now being six of the clock—they espied the good woman preparing the table for her Scawen’s supper, with a steaming dish of stew before his place and a tankard of home-brewed. She opened the door in the utmost astonishment to see her visitors, wiping her hands hastily on her apron and dropping almost as many curtseys as words in her agitation. “Why, Mr. Rich, why, my Lord—anything I can do—indeed it’s an honour. Won’t you please to be seated? Scawen will be in any minute. Sure a glass of home-brewed, though but a poor offering, won’t hurt either the one or the other of you.” The Duke put his lips to the tankard sooner than disoblige the good lady. Mr. Rich came straight to the point—Walker’s new lodging. “’Twas but two days ago he moved in and the landlady and husband went off junketing for a week to her mother at Hampstead village,” cries Mrs. Scawen, who indeed knew everybody’s business.— “Like a good-natured gentleman, which I always found him, Mr. Walker said he would eat at the coffee houses till they returned. Number 4, Wooton Street, ten minutes from here. Take the first turn to the right and to the right again and there you are. But what’s this about my dear Mrs. Fenton, Mr. Rich? I hope no harm——” For these questions however they could not stay and told her so, leaving her curtseying still like a puppet and with one eye on the couple of guineas Bolton left on the table. Outside, Mr. Rich halted. “Your Grace, I had best not go with you to Walker’s, for this reason. I believe the man’s name has been traded on as well as Mrs. Fenton’s. He dare not meddle with her. Depend on’t ’tis my Lord Baltimore, and you’re on a wrong scent. Now I don’t want to quarrel with Walker unless needs must. Look how my company’s melting away! Mrs. Bishop gone, Walker hanging in the balance, if he don’t hang in a worse place, and my Polly—the Lord knows where! Ask yourself how I’m to face the public tomorrow, and spare me Walker if you can.” The Duke acknowledged it reasonable.