The first thing, however, was to find him; but John had not much doubt on that point. After a little pause of consideration he set out for Montressor’s lodgings, feeling convinced that the actor would at least know where he was to be found. The Montressors, notwithstanding their return to fortune through the success of Edie, were still in the old rooms in one of the streets off the Strand, up three pairs of stairs, the same place in which John had supped upon hot sausages on his first night in London. How strange it was that an incident so trivial should have altered the colour of his whole life! For had he not, in his boyish folly, called himself John May to that chance friend, it might so have been that this discovery never would have been made. It was with a sigh that John remembered, shaking his head as he went up the long dingy stairs, that after all this had nothing to do with it, and that it was something more uncalled-for still, an accident without apparently any meaning in it, which had brought him directly in contact with his father, on the first night on which that contact was possible. The very first night! He had to break off with a sort of satirical smile at this accidental doom, when the door was opened by Mrs. Montressor, who looked at him with a startled expression, and not the welcoming look with which on his rare visits she had always met him. ‘Oh, Mr. May!’ she said; then paused and added, hurriedly, ‘Montressor is out, and I am just going to fetch Edie from the rehearsal. I am so sorry I cannot ask you to come in.’ He thought she stood against the door defending it, and keeping him at arm’s length. ‘It does not matter,’ he said. ‘I had--no time to come in. I wanted to find out from Montressor the address--of a friend.’ ‘What friend?’ said the woman, quickly. ‘He must have told you, Mrs. Montressor, of the discovery we made: that his friend May--was--my father: no more than that: though it had been kept from me and I didn’t know.’ ‘Oh, no, Mr. Sandford,’ cried Mrs. Montressor, ‘that was a mistake, I am sure. You see I know your real name. I found it out long ago, but I never told Montressor. No, no, Mr. Sandford, it is all a mistake. He is no relation of yours.’ A sudden gleam of hope lit up John’s mind, but faded instantly. ‘He is my father,’ he said, ‘there can be no mistake.’ ‘Oh, no, no,’ said the woman, beginning to cry. ‘It can’t be, it shan’t be; there is none of that man’s blood in you.’ ‘Hush,’ said John, ‘he is my father. Tell me where I can find him; that is the best you can do for me, Mrs. Montressor.’ ‘I can’t, then,’ she said, ‘I don’t know. I will tell you frankly he has been here, but I would not have him; I know him of old: and where he is now I don’t know.’ ‘But Montressor knows.’ ‘Very likely he does. I can’t tell you. He is out. I don’t know where he has gone. I’ll give you no information, Mr. Sandford, there! If he has the heart of a mouse in him, he will never let you know.’