“I wonder,” said Mr. Brown to himself, as he spurred his shaggy pony to a speed very unusual to the steady habits of either party, “I wonder where I shall find him. I would not for the late Lady Waddilove’s best diamond cross have any body forestall me in the news. To think of my young master dying so soon after my last visit, or rather my last visit but one; and to think of the old gentleman taking on so, and raving about his injustice to the rightful possessor, and saying that he is justly punished, and asking me so eagerly if I could discover the retreat of the late squire, and believing me so implicitly when I undertook to do it, and giving me this letter!” And here Mr. Brown wistfully examined an epistle sealed with black wax, peeping into the corners, which irritated rather than satisfied his curiosity. “I wonder what the old gentleman says in it; I suppose he will, of course, give up the estate and house. Let me see; that long picture gallery, just built, will, at all events, want furnishing. That would be a famous opportunity to get rid of the Indian jars, and the sofas, and the great Turkey carpet. How lucky that I should just have come in time to get the letter. But let me consider how I shall find out?--an advertisement in the paper? Ah! that’s the plan. ‘Algernon Mordaunt, Esq.: something greatly to his advantage; apply to Mr. Brown, etc.’ Ah! that will do well, very well. The Turkey carpet won’t be quite long enough. I wish I had discovered Mr. Mordaunt’s address before, and lent him some money during the young gentleman’s life: it would have seemed more generous. However, I can offer it now, before I show the letter. Bless me, it’s getting dark. Come, Dobbin, ye-up!” Such were the meditations of the faithful friend of the late Lady Waddilove, as he hastened to London, charged with the task of discovering Mordaunt and with the delivery of the following epistle:--