'There is something more than I can quite make out in all this,' said Tom Lydyeard, whose powers of comprehension were somewhat limited. 'It strikes me that Uffington had no idea of going to Paris when I saw him ten minutes ago, and now he is off as fast as train and boat can carry him. I wonder what his motive can be. Let me see; I told him about Forestfield and his having taken to play. Perhaps Uffington intends to bleed him. I have heard said, by fellows who have met him abroad, that he is first rate at picquet and écarté I never heard of his rooking anybody, and there is no reason why he should, as he has plenty of money of his own. Perhaps he is smitten with my lady--he seemed to take great notice of her that night at the Opera--and has gone over to shoot Forestfield; but that is quite unnecessary, for if he wants to marry her he has only to wait a little time, and she will be regularly divorced. Perhaps he wants to "avenge" her, as they say on the stage, and is going over to call Forestfield out on that account; but that sort of thing has long died out among Englishmen. I cannot make out what he is going over for, it quite beats me,' said honest Tom, 'and after all it's no business of mine;' with which remark he was in the habit of consoling himself when he found his intelligence at fault. 'Now blessings on that worthy old gentleman at Cowes Castle who was good enough to send me on to Torquay,' said Uffington to himself, as he took his seat, an hour after this conversation, in the up express, 'and blessings on the tic or toothache, or whatever it was, that knocked off a day of Tom Lydyeard's pheasant-shooting, and sent him into the town for a bottle of medicine. There is probably no other man in England who could have given me the exact information I wanted.' He reached London in time to catch the mail, and the next morning at seven o'clock rang the great bell at Meurice's so loudly as to startle the porter, who, in his high sabots, was actively engaged with the flexible hose in drenching the glazed roof of the courtyard. Meurice's was not a house with which Nugent Uffington was familiar; he had made a practice during his long sojourn abroad of shunning all those hotels which were generally patronised by his countrymen. At one or two old-fashioned establishments on the Quay Voltaire, the whole household would have rushed to greet his arrival, but to the porter of Meurice's he was a stranger. So much the better, he thought, as, while his luggage was being brought in, he asked if Lord Forestfield was staying in the house. 'Yes, sir,' replied the porter, 'milord has the suite of rooms number thirty-seven.' 'And milord was in them now?' asked Uffington, with a smile. '_En effet_,' replied the porter, looking up at the clock, and perfectly comprehending the joke, 'it was probable that milord had not yet risen. Shall I give him the gentleman's name when he comes down, and say that he has been inquired after?'