“At what hour was this?” “About half-past eight, your lordship.” “You are _sure_ the house from which she went was——” “Number ten —— street, my lord, assuredly.” “Go call a cab.” The valet bowed and at once withdrew to obey. Lord Montressor exchanged his dressing-gown for a close-bodied coat, took his hat and gloves, and in three minutes—by the time that Mr. Gridley put his head into the door to announce the cab,—he was ready to enter it. He took out his watch. “It is now half-past ten;—a late hour to make a call—but under present circumstances, I cannot afford to be fastidious. I shall ascertain if she lives in that house, and if not, _where_ she lives,” thought his lordship, as he took his seat in the carriage. “Where shall I go, sir?” asked the cabman. “Number ten —— street,” said Lord Montressor. A drive of half an hour brought them to the house. Lord Montressor alighted and looked at his watch; it was now eleven o’clock. He looked at the house; every window was darkened, every room silent, every inmate apparently asleep. He was very much disappointed. He had hoped to have reached the house some fifteen minutes earlier, and that some fortunate chance, such as an evening-party, an absent inmate, a late guest, or any among the thousand and one daily events, that happen to keep a family up at night, might have occurred this evening. He was, as I said, very much disappointed. He could almost have found it in his heart to call up the household to put to them the questions upon which he felt as if his fate depended. But this he knew, however desirable, was totally inadmissible. Ah! had he known the vital importance of these passing previous hours, he would have roused the family! As it was, he said to himself—that he was weakly and culpably impatient—that a few hours could make no difference—that the morning was altogether the more proper time for making his meditated call and inquiry; and so determining, he re-entered the cab, and gave the order— “Back to the hotel.” At ten o’clock the next morning, Lord Montressor entered a hack, and drove to the house in —— street. Without waiting for the hackman’s ring to be answered, he alighted and went up the steps, and reached the portico just as a man-servant opened the door. “Is Lady Montressor in?” was the diplomatic question of his Lordship. “Lady Montressor does not live here, sir,” answered the negro. “Can you tell me where she _does_ live?” “I cannot, sir.” “Send”——(Lord Montressor glanced up at the name on the door-plate,)—“Mrs. Brownloe here?” “Yes, sir; walk in, and take a seat, sir; what name shall I take up, sir?” “Say a gentleman.” “Yes, sir.” The man disappeared, leaving Lord Montressor seated in the drawing-room. And presently, the mistress of the house entered. She was a tall, stout, middle-aged woman, soberly attired in grey. “Mrs. Brownloe, I infer?” said Lord Montressor, rising, and setting a chair for the lady. “Yes, sir.”