So I left him at the corner, and went to the number he'd told me of. It wasn't a large house, quite the other way; I shouldn't have thought that an Earl's son would have lived in such a small one. The door was opened by a gentleman whom I at first took to be Mr. Howarth himself; but then supposed to be a servant--though he wasn't dressed like one, being just in evening clothes. He looked at me so that I wished right straight away that I'd never come. 'Mr. Howarth?' I just managed to get out. 'Mr. Howarth? Not at home. What name?' I was stammering that it didn't matter, and was going to take myself away, and glad to get the chance of doing it, when a young lady came out of the side room into the passage. She was quite the lady, though dressed as plain as plain could be, with not a scrap of jewellery about her. When she saw me standing on the step, she said to the gentleman who had opened the door: 'Bartlett, who is this?' 'Wants to see Mr. Howarth, my lady.' She came to the door and looked at me again. 'On what subject do you wish to see Mr. Howarth? I am his sister.' The servant's calling her 'my lady' had sent me all of a twitter. So that when she spoke to me I felt that silly I could have bitten myself. 'If you please, miss, I want to speak to him.' I could have scratched myself for calling her miss, she being my lady. But she didn't seem to mind. She had another look at me, and then she said: 'Come in. Perhaps you can tell me on what subject you wish to speak to my brother.' I followed her into the room she had just come out of. There was another lady in it; but, except that somehow I knew that she was older than the other, I didn't take any notice of what she was like. 'Now, is there any message which you can give me and which I can deliver to my brother?' She looked at me so straight, and with such an odd something in her eyes, that I grew more confused than ever. 'If you please, miss, I mean my lady, I only wanted to ask him what he's done with my husband.' 'You only wanted to ask him what?' 'What he's done with my husband.' I had to put my handkerchief up to my eyes. But it was as much rage as anything; through my feeling such a fool, and, no doubt, looking one. The young lady glanced at the other. I knew what she was thinking, and small blame to her; I could have boxed Mr. FitzHoward's ears for getting me into such a mess. 'I don't understand you. Who are you? And what has my brother to do with your husband?' 'If you please, miss, I mean my lady, my name's Merrett; but my husband's known as Mr. Montagu Babbacombe. He's the famous Mr. Montagu Babbacombe.' I've a sort of suspicion that the young lady smiled. 'The famous Mr. Montagu Babbacombe? I am afraid that his fame has not reached me. And what has my brother to do with Mr. Babbacombe?' 'That's what I want to know.' 'Where is your husband?' 'I want to know that too.' 'Do you mean that he's left home?'