"The doctor's just gone out, sir. He will be home at five." It was a sort of checkmate, and Lionel stood looking at the servant--as if the man could telegraph some impossible aerial message to his master to bring him back then. "Is Captain Cannonby staying here?" was his next question. "No, sir. He was staying here, but he went away this morning." "He is home from Paris then?" "He came back two or three days ago, sir," replied the servant. "Do you know where he is gone?" "I don't, sir. I fancy it's somewhere in the country." "Dr. Cannonby would know?" "I dare say he would, sir. I should think so." Lionel turned to the door. Where was the use of his lingering? He looked back to ask a question. "You are sure that Captain Cannonby has gone out of town?" "Oh, yes, sir." He descended the steps, and the man closed the door upon him. Where should he go? What should he do with himself for the next two and a half mortal hours? Go to his club? Or to any of the old spots of his London life? Not he; some familiar faces might be in town; and he was in no mood for familiar faces then. Sauntering hither, sauntering thither, he came to Westminster Bridge. One of the steamers was approaching the pier to take in passengers, on its way down the river. For want of some other mode in which to employ his time, Lionel went down to the embarking place, and stepped on board. Does _any_thing in this world happen by chance? What secret unknown impulse could have sent Lionel Verner on board that steamer? Had Dr. Cannonby been at home he would not have gone near it; had he turned to the right hand instead of to the left, on leaving Dr. Cannonby's house, the boat would never have seen him. It was not crowded, as those steamers sometimes are crowded, suggesting visions of the bottom of the river. The day was fine; warm for September, but not too hot; the gliding down the stream delightful. With a heart at ease, Lionel would have found it so; as it was, he could scarcely have told whether he was going down the stream or up, whether it was wet or dry. He could see but one thing--the image of Frederick Massingbird. As the boat drew up to the Temple Pier, the only person waiting to embark was a woman; a little body in a faded brown silk dress. Whether, seeing his additional freight was to be so trifling, the manager of the steamer did not take the usual care to bring it alongside, certain it is, that in some way the woman fell, in stepping on board; her knees on the boat, her feet hanging down to the water. Lionel, who was sitting near, sprang forward and pulled her out of danger. "I declare I never ought to come aboard these nasty steamers!" she exclaimed, as he placed her in a seat. "I'm greatly obliged to you, sir; I might have gone in, else; there's no saying. The last time I was aboard one I was in danger of being killed. I fell through the port-hole, sir."